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BLOWING  HER  BREATH  UPON  H  I  M 


KWAI  DAN: 

STORIES  AND  STUDIES  OF  STRANGE 
THINGS   *—<^  LAFCADIO  HEARN 


LECTURER  ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE  IN  THE  IMPE 
RIAL  UNIVERSITY  OF  TOKYO,  JAPAN  (1896-1903) 
HONORARY  MEMBER  OF  THE  JAPAN  SOCIETY,  LONDON 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COM- 
PANY  MDCCCCXI 


COPYRIGHT  1904  BY 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  *  CO. 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


M 


/v   tv 

Published  April  1904. 


Kr 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  publication  of  a  new  volume  of 
Lafcadio  Hearn's  exquisite  studies  of  Japan  hap 
pens,  by  a  delicate  irony,  to  fall  in  the  very  month 
when  the  world  is  waiting  with  tense  expectation 
for  news  of  the  latest  exploits  of  Japanese  battle 
ships.  Whatever  the  outcome  of  the  present 
struggle  between  Russia  and  Japan,  its  signifi 
cance  lies  in  the  fact  that  a  nation  of  the  East, 
equipped  with  Western  weapons  and  girding  it 
self  with  Western  energy  of  will,  is  deliberately 
measuring  strength  against  one  of  the  great 
powers  of  the  Occident.  No  one  is  wise  enough 
to  forecast  the  results  of  such  a  conflict  upon 
the  civilization  of  the  world.  The  best  one  can 
do  is  to  estimate,  as  intelligently  as  possible, 
the  national  characteristics  of  the  peoples  en 
gaged,  basing  one's  hopes  and  fears  upon  the 
psychology  of  the  two  races  rather  than  upon 


242347 


purely  political  and  statistical  studies  of  the 
complicated  questions  involved  in  the  present 
war.  The  Russian  people  have  had  literary 
spokesmen  who  for  more  than  a  generation 
have  fascinated  the  European  audience.  The 
Japanese,  on  the  other  hand,  have  possessed  no 
such  national  and  universally  recognized  figures 
as  Turgenieff  or  Tolstoy.  They  need  an  inter 
preter. 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  any  orien 
tal  race  has  ever  had  an  interpreter  gifted  with 
more  perfect  insight  and  sympathy  than  Laf- 
cadio  Hearn  has  brought  to  the  translation  of 
Japan  into  terms  of  our  occidental  speech.  His 
long  residence  in  that  country,  his  flexibility  of 
mind,  poetic  imagination,  and  wonderfully  pel 
lucid  style  have  fitted  him  for  the  most  delicate 
of  literary  tasks.  He  has  seen  marvels,  and 
he  has  told  of  them  in  a  marvelous  way.  There 
is  scarcely  an  aspect  of  contemporary  Japanese 
life,  scarcely  an  element  in  the  social,  political, 
and  military  questions  involved  in  the  present 
conflict  with  Russia  which  is  not  made  clear  in 
one  or  another  of  the  books  with  which  he  has 
charmed  American  readers. 


He  characterizes  Kwaidan  as  "  stories 
and  studies  of  strange  things."  A  hundred 
thoughts  suggested  by  the  book  might  be  writ 
ten  down,  but  most  of  them  would  begin  and 
end  with  this  fact  of  strangeness.  To  read  the 
very  names  in  the  table  of  contents  is  like  listen 
ing  to  a  Buddhist  bell,  struck  somewhere  far 
away.  Some  of  his  tales  are  of  the  long  ago,  and 
yet  they  seem  to  illumine  the  very  souls  and 
minds  of  the  little  men  who  are  at  this  hour 
crowding  the  decks  of  Japan's  armored  cruisers. 
But  many  of  the  stories  are  about  women  and 
children,  —  the  lovely  materials  from  which  the 
best  fairy  tales  of  the  world  have  been  woven. 
They  too  are  strange,  these  Japanese  maidens 
and  wives  and  keen-eyed,  dark-haired  girls  and 
boys  ;  they  are  like  us  and  yet  not  like  us ; 
and  the  sky  and  the  hills  and  the  flowers  are 
all  different  from  ours.  Yet  by  a  magic  of 
which  Mr.  Hearn,  almost  alone  among  contem 
porary  writers,  is  the  master,  in  these  delicate, 
transparent,  ghostly  sketches  of  a  world  unreal 
to  us,  there  is  a  haunting  sense  of  spiritual 
reality. 

In  a  penetrating  and  beautiful  essay 


contributed  to  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly "  in 
February,  1903,  by  Paul  Elmer  More,  the  se 
cret  of  Mr.  Hearn's  magic  is  said  to  lie  in  the 
fact  that  in  his  art  is  found  "  the  meeting  of 
three  ways."  "To  the  religious  instinct  of  In 
dia,  —  Buddhism  in  particular,  —  which  history 
has  engrafted  on  the  aesthetic  sense  of  Japan, 
Mr.  Hearn  brings  the  interpreting  spirit  of  oc 
cidental  science  ;  and  these  three  traditions  are 
fused  by  the  peculiar  sympathies  of  his  mind 
into  one  rich  and  novel  compound,  —  a  com 
pound  so  rare  as  to  have  introduced  into  litera 
ture  a  psychological  sensation  unknown  be 
fore."  Mr.  More's  essay  received  the  high 
praise  of  Mr.  Hearn's  recognition  and  grati 
tude,  and  if  it  were  possible  to  reprint  it  here, 
it  would  provide  a  most  suggestive  introduc 
tion  to  these  new  stories  of  old  Japan,  whose 
substance  is,  as  Mr.  More  has  said,  "  so 
strangely  mingled  together  out  of  the  austere 
dreams  of  India  and  the  subtle  beauty  of  Japan 
and  the  relentless  science  of  Europe." 

March,  1904. 


MOST  of  the  following  Kwaidan, 
or  Weird  Tales,  have  been  taken  from  old 
Japanese  books,  —  such  as  the  Yaso-Kidan, 
Bukkyo-Hyakkwa-Zenshdy  Kokon-  Chomonsku, 
Tama-Sudar^  and  Hyaku-Monogatari.  Some 
of  the  stories  may  have  had  a  Chinese  origin : 
the  very  remarkable  "  Dream  of  Akinosuke," 
for  example,  is  certainly  from  a  Chinese  source. 
But  the  Japanese  story-teller,  in  every  case,  has 
so  recolored  and  reshaped  his  borrowing  as  to 
naturalize  it.  ...  One  queer  tale,  "Yuki-Onna," 
was  told  me  by  a  farmer  of  Chofu,  Nishitama- 
gori,  in  Musashi  province,  as  a  legend  of  his 
native  village.  Whether  it  has  ever  been  writ 
ten  in  Japanese  I  do  not  know ;  but  the  extra 
ordinary  belief  which  it  records  used  certainly 

iii 


to  exist  in  most  parts  of  Japan,  and  in  many 
curious  forms.  .  .  .  The  incident  of  "  Riki- 
Baka  "  was  a  personal  experience ;  and  I  wrote 
it  down  almost  exactly  as  it  happened,  changing 
only  a  family-name  mentioned  by  the  Japanese 
narrator. 

L.  H. 

TOKYO,  JAPAN,  January  2oth,  1904. 


CONTENTS 


KWAIDAN 

THE  STORY  OF  MIMI-NASHI-HOICHI    .  i 

OSHIDORI 21 

THE   STORY   OF   O-TEI 27 

UBAZAKURA 37 

DIPLOMACY 43 

OF  A   MIRROR   AND   A   BELL 51 

JIKININKI 63 

MUJINA 75 

ROKURO-KUBI 81 

A   DEAD   SECRET 101 

YUKI-ONNA 109 

THE   STORY   OF  AOYAGI 119 

JIU-ROKU-ZAKURA 137 

THE  DREAM   OF  AKINOSUKE      ....  143 


RIKI-BAKA 157 

HI-MA  WARI 163 

HORAI 171 

INSECT-STUDIES 

BUTTERFLIES 179 

MOSQUITOES 205 

ANTS 213 


NOTE   ON   THE   ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  two  drawings  are  by  the  Japanese  artist,  Keishu 
Takenouchi.  The  frontispiece  illustrates  the  scene 
in  the  story  "  Yuki-Onna"  described  on  page  //j,  and 
the  drawing  facing  page  180  illustrates  the  Butterfly 
Dance,  described  on  page  203. 


THE 

STOW 

op 


NASHf 


THE 


NASHf- 


MORE  than  seven  hundred  years  ago, 
at  Dan-no-ura,  in  the  Straits  of  Shimonoseki, 
was  fought  the  last  battle  of  the  long  contest 
between  the  Heik£,  or  Taira  clan,  and  the 
Genji,  or  Minamoto  clan.  There  the  Heike"  per 
ished  utterly,  with  their  women  and  children, 
and  their  infant  emperor  likewise — now  remem 
bered  as  Antoku  Tenno.  And  that  sea  and 
shore  have  been  haunted  for  seven  hundred 
years.  .  .  .  Elsewhere  I  told  you  about  the 
strange  crabs  found  there,  called  Heike"  crabs, 

3 


which  have  human  faces  on  their  backs,  and 
are  said  to  be  the  spirits  of  Heike  warriors.1 
But  there  are  many  strange  things  to  be  seen 
and  heard  along  that  coast.  On  dark  nights 
thousands  of  ghostly  fires  hover  about  the 
beach,  or  flit  above  the  waves,  —  pale  lights 
which  the  fishermen  call  Oni-bi,  or  demon-fires  ; 
and,  whenever  the  winds  are  up,  a  sound  of 
great  shouting  comes  from  that  sea,  like  a 
clamor  of  battle. 

In  former  years  the  Heike  were  much 
more  restless  than  they  now  are.  They  would 
rise  about  ships  passing  in  the  night,  and  try 
to  sink  them ;  and  at  all  times  they  would  watch 
for  swimmers,  to  pull  them  down.  It  was  in 
order  to  appease  those  dead  that  the  Buddhist 
temple,  Amidaji,  was  built  at  Akamagaseki.2 
A  cemetery  also  was  made  close  by,  near  the 
beach ;  and  within  it  were  set  up  monuments 
inscribed  with  the  names  of  the  drowned  em 
peror  and  of  his  great  vassals ;  and  Buddhist 
services  were  regularly  performed  there,  on  be 
half  of  the  spirits  of  them.  After  the  temple 
had  been  built,  and  the  tombs  erected,  the 
Heike  gave  less  trouble  than  before ;  but  they 
continued  to  do  queer  things  at  intervals,— 

1  See  my  Kotto,  for  a  description  of  these  curious  crabs. 

2  Or,  Shimonoseki.     The  town  is  also  known  by  the  name 
of  Bakkan. 

4 


proving  that  they  had   not  found  the  perfect 
peace. 

Some  centuries  ago  there  lived  at  Aka- 
magaseki  a  blind  man  named  Hoi'chi,  who  was 
famed  for  his  skill  in  recitation  and  in  playing 
upon  the  biwa.1  From  childhood  he  had  been 
trained  to  recite  and  to  play ;  and  while  yet  a 
lad  he  had  surpassed  his  teachers.  As  a  pro 
fessional  biwa-hoshi  he  became  famous  chiefly 
by  his  recitations  of  the  history  of  the  Heike 
and  the  Genji ;  and  it  is  said  that  when  he  sang 
the  song  of  the  battle  of  Dan-no-ura  "  even  the 
goblins  \kijin\  could  not  refrain  from  tears." 

At  the  outset  of  his  career,  HoYchi 
was  very  poor ;  but  he  found  a  good  friend  to 
help  him.  The  priest  of  the  Amidaji  was  fond 
of  poetry  and  music ;  and  he  often  invited 
Hoi'chi  to  the  temple,  to  play  and  recite.  After 
wards,  being  much  impressed  by  the  wonderful 
skill  of  the  lad,  the  priest  proposed  that  Hoi'chi 

1  The  biwa,  a  kind  of  four-stringed  lute,  is  chiefly  used  in 
musical  recitative.  Formerly  the  professional  minstrels  who 
recited  the  Heike-Monogatari,  and  other  tragical  histories, 
were  called  biwa-hoshi,  or  "lute-priests."  The  origin  of  this 
appellation  is  not  clear ;  but  it  is  possible  that  it  may  have 
been  suggested  by  the  fact  that  "  lute-priests,"  as  well  as 
blind  shampooers,  had  their  heads  shaven,  like  Buddhist 
priests.  The  biwa  is  played  with  a  kind  of  plectrum,  called 
bachi,  usually  made  of  horn. 

5 


r^ 


f/^ 
A 


should  make  the  temple  his  home ;  and  this  of 
fer  was  gratefully  accepted.  Ho'fchi  was  given  a 
room  in  the  temple-building  ;  and,  in  return  for 
food  and  lodging,  he  was  required  only  to  grat 
ify  the  priest  with  a  musical  performance  on 
certain  evenings,  when  otherwise  disengaged. 

One  summer  night  the  priest  was 
called  away,  to  perform  a  Buddhist  service  at 
the  house  of  a  dead  parishioner  ;  and  he  went 
there  with  his  acolyte,  leaving  Hoi'chi  alone  in 
the  temple.  It  was  a  hot  night ;  and  the  blind 
man  sought  to  cool  himself  on  the  verandah 
before  his  sleeping-room.  The  verandah  over 
looked  a  small  garden  in  the  rear  of  the  Ami- 
daji.  There  Ho'fchi  waited  for  the  priest's 
return,  and  tried  to  relieve  his  solitude  by  prac 
ticing  upon  his  biwa.  Midnight  passed ;  and 
the  priest  did  not  appear.  But  the  atmosphere 
was  still  too  warm  for  comfort  within  doors  ; 
and  Hoi'chi  remained  outside.  At  last  he  heard 
steps  approaching  from  the  back  gate.  Some 
body  crossed  the  garden,  advanced  to  the  ve 
randah,  and  halted  directly  in  front  of  him  — 
but  it  was  not  the  priest.  A  deep  voice  called 
the  blind  man's  name  —  abruptly  and  uncere 
moniously,  in  the  manner  of  a  samurai  summon 
ing  an  inferior :  — 

"  Horchi  1 " 
6 


Ho'fchi  was  too  much  startled,  for  the 
moment,  to  respond ;  and  the  voice  called  again, 
in  a  tone  of  harsh  command,  — 

"Ho'fchi!" 

"  Hai !  "  answered  the  blind  man, 
frightened  by  the  menace  in  the  voice,  —  "I 
am  blind  !  —  I  cannot  know  who  calls  !  " 

"There  is  nothing  to  fear,"  the 
stranger  exclaimed,  speaking  more  gently.  "  I 
am  stopping  near  this  temple,  and  have  been 
sent  to  you  with  a  message.  My  present  lord, 
a  person  of  exceedingly  high  rank,  is  now  stay 
ing  in  Akamagaseki,  with  many  noble  attend 
ants.  He  wished  to  view  the  scene  of  the 
battle  of  Dan-no-ura ;  and  to-day  he  visited  that 
place.  Having  heard  of  your  skill  in  reciting 
the  story  of  the  battle,  he  now  desires  to  hear 
your  performance  :  so  you  will  take  your  biwa 
and  come  with  me  at  once  to  the  house  where 
the  august  assembly  is  waiting." 

In  those  times,  the  order  of  a  samu 
rai  was  not  to  be  lightly  disobeyed.  Hoi'chi 
donned  his  sandals,  took  his  biwa,  and  went 
away  with  the  stranger,  who  guided  him  deftly, 
but  obliged  him  to  walk  very  fast.  The  hand 
that  guided  was  iron ;  and  the  clank  of  the 
warrior's  stride  proved  him  fully  armed,  — 
probably  some  palace-guard  on  duty.  Hoi'chi's 
first  alarm  was  over :  he  began  to  imagine  him- 

7 


ft 


self  in  good  luck;  —  for,  remembering  the  re- 
tainer's  assurance  about  a  "person  of  exceed- 
ingly  high  rank,"  he  thought  that  the  lord  who 
wished  to  hear  the  recitation  could  not  be  less 
than  a  daimyo  of  the  first  class.  Presently  the 
samurai  halted ;  and  Hoi'chi  became  aware  that 
they  had  arrived  at  a  large  gateway ;  —  and  he 
wondered,  for  he  could  not  remember  any  large 
gate  in  that  part  of  the  town,  except  the  main 
gate  of  the  Amidaji.  "  Kaimon!"*  the  samu 
rai  called,  —  and  there  was  a  sound  of  unbar 
ring  ;  and  the  twain  passed  on.  They  traversed 
a  space  of  garden,  and  halted  again  before 
some  entrance ;  and  the  retainer  cried  in  a 
loud  voice,  "  Within  there !  I  have  brought 
Hoi'chi."  Then  came  sounds  of  feet  hurrying, 
and  screens  sliding,  and  rain-doors  opening, 
and  voices  of  women  in  converse.  By  the  lan 
guage  of  the  women  Ho'fchi  knew  them  to  be 
domestics  in  some  noble  household ;  but  he 
could  not  imagine  to  what  place  he  had  been 
conducted.  Little  time  was  allowed  him  for 
conjecture.  After  he  had  been  helped  to  mount 
several  stone  steps,  upon  the  last  of  which  he 
was  told  to  leave  his  sandals,  a  woman's  hand 
guided  him  along  interminable  reaches  of  pol- 

1  A  respectful  term,  signifying  the  opening  of  a  gate.  It 
was  used  by  samurai  when  calling  to  the  guards  on  duty  at 
a  lord's  gate  for  admission. 

8 


ished  planking,  and  round  pillared  angles  too 
many  to  remember,  and  over  widths  amazing  of 
matted  floor,  —  into  the  middle  of  some  vast 
apartment.  There  he  thought  that  many  great  ^/C 
people  were  assembled  :  the  sound  of  the  rus 
tling  of  silk  was  like  the  sound  of  leaves  in  a 
forest.  He  heard  also  a  great  humming  of 
voices,  —  talking  in  undertones ;  and  the  speech 
was  the  speech  of  courts. 

Hoi'chi  was  told  to  put  himself  at  ease, 
and  he  found  a  kneeling-cushion  ready  for  him. 
After  having  taken  his  place  upon  it,  and  tuned 
his  instrument,  the  voice  of  a  woman  — whom  he 
divined  to  be  the  Rojo,  or  matron  in  charge  of 
the  female  service  —  addressed  him,  saying,  — 

"It  is  now  required  that  the  history 
of  the  Heike  be  recited,  to  the  accompaniment 
of  the  biwa." 

Now  the  entire  recital  would  have  re 
quired  a  time  of  many  nights  :  therefore  Hoi'chi 
ventured  a  question  :  — 

"As  the  whole  of  the  story  is  not 
soon  told,  what  portion  is  it  augustly  desired 
that  I  now  recite  ?  " 

The  woman's  voice  made  answer  :  — 

"Recite  the  story  of  the  battle  at 
Dan-no-ura,  —  for  the  pity  of  it  is  the  most 
deep."1 

1  Or  the  phrase  might  be  rendered,  '*  for  the  pity  of  that 

9 


Then  Horchi  lifted  up  his  voice,  and 
chanted  the  chant  of  the  fight  on  the  bitter  sea, 
—  wonderfully  making  his  biwa  to  sound  like  the 
straining  of  oars  and  the  rushing  of  ships,  the 
whirr  and  the  hissing  of  arrows,  the  shouting 
and  trampling  of  men,  the  crashing  of  steel  upon 
helmets,  the  plunging  of  slain  in  the  flood.  And 
to  left  and  right  of  him,  in  the  pauses  of  his 
playing,  he  could  hear  voices  murmuring  praise  : 
"  How  marvelous  an  artist !  " —  "  Never  in  our 
own  province  was  playing  heard  like  this !  " 
"  Not  in  all  the  empire  is  there  another  singer 
like  H5i'chi ! "  Then  fresh  courage  came  to 
him,  and  he  played  and  sang  yet  better  than 
before  ;  and  a  hush  of  wonder  deepened  about 
him.  But  when  at  last  he  came  to  tell  the  fate 
of  the  fair  and  helpless,  —  the  piteous  perishing 
of  the  women  and  children,  —  and  the  death-leap 
of  Nii-no-Ama,  with  the  imperial  infant  in  her 
arms,  —  then  all  the  listeners  uttered  together 
one  long,  long  shuddering  cry  of  anguish ;  and 
thereafter  they  wept  and  wailed  so  loudly  and 
so  wildly  that  the  blind  man  was  frightened  by 
the  violence  of  the  grief  that  he  had  made.  For 
much  time  the  sobbing  and  the  wailing  con 
tinued.  But  gradually  the  sounds  of  lamentation 
died  away  ;  and  again,  in  the  great  stillness  that 

part  is  the   deepest."     The   Japanese  word  for  pity  in  the 

original  text  is  aware. 

IO 


followed,  HoYchi  heard  the  voice  of  the  woman 
whom  he  supposed  to  be  the  Rojo. 

She  said  :  — 

"  Although  we  had  been  assured  that 
you  were  a  very  skillful  player  upon  the  biwa, 
and  without  an  equal  in  recitative,  we  did  not 
know  that  any  one  could  be  so  skillful  as  you 
have  proved  yourself  to-night.  Our  lord  has 
been  pleased  to  say  that  he  intends  to  bestow 
upon  you  a  fitting  reward.  But  he  desires  that 
you  shall  perform  before  him  once  every  night 
for  the  next  six  nights  —  after  which  time  he 
will  probably  make  his  august  return-journey. 
To-morrow  night,  therefore,  you  are  to  come 
here  at  the  same  hour.  The  retainer  who  to 
night  conducted  you  will  be  sent  for  you.  .  . 
There  is  another  matter  about  which  I  have  been 
ordered  to  inform  you.  It  is  required  that  you 
shall  speak  to  no  one  of  your  visits  here,  during 
the  time  of  our  lord's  august  sojourn  at  Akama- 
gaseki.  As  he  is  traveling  incognito,1  he  com 
mands  that  no  mention  of  these  things  be  made. 
.  .  .  You  are  now  free  to  go  back  to  your 
temple." 

After  Hoi'chi  had  duly  expressed  his 

*  "  Traveling  incognito  "  is  at  least  the  meaning  of  the 
original  phrase,  — " making  a  disguised  august-journey" 
(shinobi  no  go-ryoko). 

II 


thanks,  a  woman's  hand  conducted  him  to  the 
entrance  of  the  house,  where  the  same  retainer, 
who  had  before  guided  him,  was  waiting  to  take 
him  home.  The  retainer  led  him  to  the  veran 
dah  at  the  rear  of  the  temple,  and  there  bade 
him  farewell. 

It  was  almost  dawn  when  Hoi'chi  re 
turned  ;  but  his  absence  from  the  temple  had 
not  been  observed,  —  as  the  priest,  coming  back 
at  a  very  late  hour,  had  supposed  him  asleep. 
During  the  day  Hoi'chi  was  able  to  take  some 
rest ;  and  he  said  nothing  about  his  strange 
adventure.  In  the  middle  of  the  following  night 
the  samurai  again  came  for  him,  and  led  him  to 
the  august  assembly,  where  he  gave  another 
recitation  with  the  same  success  that  had  at 
tended  his  previous  performance.  But  during 
this  second  visit  his  absence  from  the  temple 
was  accidentally  discovered;  and  after  his  re 
turn  in  the  morning  he  was  summoned  to  the 
presence  of  the  priest,  who  said  to  him,  in  a 
tone  of  kindly  reproach  :  — 

"  We  have  been  very  anxious  about 
you,  friend  Hoi'chi.  To  go  out,  blind  and  alone, 
at  so  late  an  hour,  is  dangerous.  Why  did  you 
go  without  telling  us  ?  I  could  have  ordered 
a  servant  to  accompany  you.  And  where  have 
you  been  ?  " 

12 


Hoi'chi  answered,  evasively,  — 
"  Pardon  me,  kind  friend !    I  had  to 
attend  to  some  private  business ;  and ,  I  could 
not  arrange  the  matter  at  any  other  hour." 

The  priest  was  surprised,  rather  than 
pained,  by  Hoi'chi' s  reticence :  he  felt  it  to  be 
unnatural,  and  suspected  something  wrong.  He 
feared  that  the  blind  lad  had  been  bewitched  or 
deluded  by  some  evil  spirits.  He  did  not  ask 
any  more  questions  ;  but  he  privately  instructed 
the  men-servants  of  the  temple  to  keep  watch 
upon  Hoi'chi's  movements,  and  to  follow  him  in 
case  that  he  should  again  leave  the  temple  after 
dark. 

On  the  very  next  night,  Hoi'chi  was 
seen  to  leave  the  temple  ;  and  the  servants  im 
mediately  lighted  their  lanterns,  and  followed  after 
him.  But  it  was  a  rainy  night,  and  very  dark  ; 
and  before  the  temple-folks  could  get  to  the 
roadway,  Ho'fchi  had  disappeared.  Evidently 
he  had  walked  very  fast,  —  a  strange  thing,  con 
sidering  his  blindness ;  for  the  road  was  in  a 
bad  condition.  The  men  hurried  through  the 
streets,  making  inquiries  at  every  house  which 
Hoi'chi  was  accustomed  to  visit ;  but  nobody 
could  give  them  any  news  of  him.  At  last,  as 
they  were  returning  to  the  temple  by  way  of 
the  shore,  they  were  startled  by  the  sound  of  a 

13 


biwa,  furiously  played,  in  the  cemetery  of  the 
Amidaji.  Except  for  some  ghostly  fires  —  such 
as  usually  flitted  there  on  dark  nights  —  all  was 
blackness  in  that  direction.  But  the  men  at 
once  hastened  to  the  cemetery ;  and  there,  by 
the  help  of  their  lanterns,  they  discovered  Hoichi, 
—  sitting  alone  in  the  rain  before  the  memorial 
tomb  of  Antoku  Tenno,  making  his  biwa  re 
sound,  and  loudly  chanting  the  chant  of  the 
battle  of  Dan-no-ura.  And  behind  him,  and 
about  him,  and  everywhere  above  the  tombs, 
the  fires  of  the  dead  were  burning,  like  candles. 
Never  before  had  so  great  a  host  of  Oni-bi  ap 
peared  in  the  sight  of  mortal  man.  .  .  . 

"  Hoichi  San  !  —  Hoi'chi  San  !  "  the 
servants  cried,  — "  you  are  bewitched  !  .  .  . 
Hoi'chi  San!" 

But  the  blind  man  did  not  seem  to 
hear.  Strenuously  he  made  his  biwa  to  rattle 
and  ring  and  clang ;  —  more  and  more  wildly 
he  chanted  the  chant  of  the  battle  of  Dan-no- 
ura.  They  caught  hold  of  him  ;  —  they  shouted 
into  his  ear,  — 

"  Ho'fchi  San!  —  Hoichi  San  !  —  come 
home  with  us  at  once  !  " 

Reprovingly  he  spoke  to  them  :  — 

"  To  interrupt  me  in  such  a  manner, 
before  this  august  assembly,  will  not  be  toler 
ated." 
14 


Whereat,  in  spite  of  the  weirdness  £7-> 
of  the  thing,  the  servants  could  not  help  laugh 
ing.  Sure  that  he  had  been  bewitched,  they 
now  seized  him,  and  pulled  him  up  on  his  feet, 
and  by  main  force  hurried  him  back  to  the 
temple,  —  where  he  was  immediately  relieved 
of  his  wet  clothes,  by  order  of  the  priest,  and 
reclad,  and  made  to  eat  and  drink.  Then  the 
priest  insisted  upon  a  full  explanation  of  his 
friend's  astonishing  behavior, 

Hoi'chi  long  hesitated  to  speak.  But 
at  last,  finding  that  his  conduct  had  really 
alarmed  and  angered  the  good  priest,  he  de 
cided  to  abandon  his  reserve  ;  and  he  related 
everything  that  had  happened  from  the  time  of 
the  first  visit  of  the  samurai. 

The  priest  said  :  — 

"  Hofchi,  my  poor  friend,  you  are  now 
in  great  danger  !  How  unfortunate  that  you  did 
not  tell  me  all  this  before  !  Your  wonderful 
skill  in  music  has  indeed  brought  you  into 
strange  trouble.  By  this  time  you  must  be 
aware  that  you  have  not  been  visiting  any  house 
whatever,  but  have  been  passing  your  nights  in 
the  cemetery,  among  the  tombs  of  the  Heike ; 
—  and  it  was  before  the  memorial-tomb  of 
Antoku  Tenno  that  our  people  to-night  found 
you,  sitting  in  the  rain.  All  that  you  have  been 
imagining  was  illusion  —  except  the  calling  of 

15 


the  dead.  By  once  obeying  them,  you  have  put 
yourself  in  their  power.  If  you  obey  them  again, 
after  what  has  already  occurred,  they  will  tear 
you  in  pieces.  But  they  would  have  destroyed 
you,  sooner  or  later,  in  any  event.  .  .  .  Now  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  remain  with  you  to-night : 
I  am  called  away  to  perform  another  service. 
But,  before  I  go,  it  will  be  necessary  to  protect 
your  body  by  writing  holy  texts  upon  it." 

Before  sundown  the  priest  and  his 
acolyte  stripped  Hoi'chi :  then,  with  their  writ 
ing-brushes,  they  traced  upon  his  breast  and 
back,  head  and  face  and  neck,  limbs  and  hands 
and  feet,  —  even  upon  the  soles  of  his  feet,  and 
upon  all  parts  of  his  body,  —  the  text  of  the 
holy  sutra  called  Hannya-Shin-Kyo?  When 

1  The  Smaller  Pragna-Paramita-Hridaya-Sutra  is  thus  called 
in  Japanese.  Both  the  smaller  and  larger  sutras  called 
Pragna-Paramita  ("  Transcendent  Wisdom  ")  have  been  trans 
lated  by  the  late  Professor  Max  Miiller,  and  can  be  found  in 
volume  xlix.  of  the  Sacred  Books  of  the  East  ("  Buddhist 
Mahayana  Sutras" ) .  —  Apropos  of  the  magical  use  of  the 
text,  as  described  in  this  story,  it  is  worth  remarking  that  the 
subject  of  the  sutra  is  the  Doctrine  of  the  Emptiness  of 
Forms,  —  that  is  to  say,  of  the  unreal  character  of  all  phe 
nomena  or  noumena.  ..."  Form  is  emptiness ;  and  empti 
ness  is  form.  Emptiness  is  not  different  from  form ;  form 
is  not  different  from  emptiness.  What  is  form  —  that  is 
emptiness.  What  is  emptiness  —  that  is  form.  .  .  .  Percep 
tion,  name,  concept,  and  knowledge,  are  also  emptiness. 
-  .  .  There  is  no  eye,  ear,  nose,  tongue,  body,  and  mind 

16 


this  had  been  done,  the  priest  instructed  Hoi'chi, 
saying  :- 

"Tonight,  as  soon  as  I  go  away,  you 
must  seat  yourself  on  the  verandah,  and  wait. 
You  will  be  called.  But,  whatever  may  happen, 
do  not  answer,  and  do  not  move.  Say  nothing, 
and  sit  still — as  if  meditating.  If  you  stir,  or 
make  any  noise,  you  will  be  torn  asunder.  Do 
not  get  frightened ;  and  do  not  think  of  calling 
for  help  —  because  no  help  could  save  you.  If 
you  do  exactly  as  I  tell  you,  the  danger  will  pass, 
and  you  will  have  nothing  more  to  fear." 

After  dark  the  priest  and  the  acolyte 
went  away ;  and  Ho'fchi  seated  himself  on  the 
verandah,  according  to  the  instructions  given 
him.  He  laid  his  biwa  on  the  planking  beside 
him,  and,  assuming  the  attitude  of  meditation, 
remained  quite  still,  —  taking  care  not  to  cough, 
or  to  breathe  audibly.  For  hours  he  stayed 
thus. 

Then,  from  the  roadway,  he  heard  the 
steps  coming.  They  passed  the  gate,  crossed 
the  garden,  approached  the  verandah,  stopped 
—  directly  in  front  of  him. 

"  Hoi'chi !  "  the  deep  voice  called.   But 

.  .  .  But  when  the  envelopment  of  consciousness  has  been 
annihilated,  then  he  [  the  seeker  ]  becomes  free  from  all  fear, 
and  beyond  the  reach  of  change,  enjoying  final  Nirvana." 

17 


ft 


tf/C 


the  blind  man  held  his  breath,  and  sat  motion- 
less. 

"HoTchi!"  grimly  called  the  voice  a 
second  time.  Then  a  third  time  —  savagely  :  — 

"Hoi'chi!" 

HoTchi  remained  as  still  as  a  stone,  — 
and  the  voice  grumbled  :  — 

"  No  answer  !  —  that  won't  do  !  ... 
Must  see  where  the  fellow  is."  .  .  . 

There  was  a  noise  of  heavy  feet  mount 
ing  upon  the  verandah.  The  feet  approached 
deliberately,  —  halted  beside  him.  Then,  for 
long  minutes,  —  during  which  HoTchi  felt  his 
whole  body  shake  to  the  beating  of  his  heart,  — 
there  was  dead  silence. 

At  last  the  gruff  voice  muttered  close 
to  him  :  — 

"  Here  is  the  biwa  ;  but  of  the  biwa- 
player  I  see  —  only  two  ears  !  ...  So  that  ex 
plains  why  he  did  not  answer  :  he  had  no  mouth 
to  answer  with  —  there  is  nothing  left  of  him 
but  his  ears.  .  .  .  Now  to  my  lord  those  ears 
I  will  take  —  in  proof  that  the  august  com 
mands  have  been  obeyed,  so  far  as  was  pos 
sible  "  .  .  . 

At  that  instant  HoTchi  felt  his  ears 
gripped  by  fingers  of  iron,  and  torn  off  !  Great 
as  the  pain  was,  he  gave  no  cry.  The  heavy 
footfalls  receded  along  the  verandah,  —  de- 
18 


scended  into  the  garden,  —  passed  out  to  the 
roadway,  —  ceased.    From    either    side    of    his 
head,  the  blind  man  felt  a  thick  warm  trickling ;     ^|% 
but  he  dared  not  lift  his  hands.  .  .  . 

Before  sunrise  the  priest  came  back. 
He  hastened  at  once  to  the  verandah  in  the 
rear,  stepped  and  slipped  upon  something 
clammy,  and  uttered  a  cry  of  horror ;  —  for  he 
saw,  by  the  light  of  his  lantern,  that  the  clam 
miness  was  blood.  But  he  perceived  Hoifchi 
sitting  there,  in  the  attitude  of  meditation  — 
with  the  blood  still  oozing  from  his  wounds. 

"My  poor  Hoichi!  "  cried  the  startled 
priest,  — "  what  is  this  ?  .  .  .  You  have  been 
hurt?"  .  .  . 

At  the  sound  of  his  friend's  voice,  the 
blind  man  felt  safe.  He  burst  out  sobbing,  and 
tearfully  told  his  adventure  of  the  night. 

"Poor,  poor  Hoi'chi!"  the  priest  ex 
claimed,  —  "all  my  fault !  —  my  very  grievous 
fault !  .  .  .  Everywhere  upon  your  body  the 
holy  texts  had  been  written  —  except  upon  your 
ears!  I  trusted  my  acolyte  to  do  that  part  of 
the  work ;  and  it  was  very,  very  wrong  of  me 
not  to  have  made  sure  that  he  had  done  it !  ... 
Well,  the  matter  cannot  now  be  helped ;  —  we 
can  only  try  to  heal  your  hurts  as  soon  as  pos 
sible.  .  .  .  Cheer  up,  friend! — the  danger  is 

19 


now  well  over.    You  will  never  again  be  troubled 
by  those  visitors." 

With  the  aid  of  a  good  doctor,  Ho'fchi 
soon  recovered  from  his  injuries.  The  story 
of  his  strange  adventure  spread  far  and  wide, 
and  soon  made  him  famous.  Many  noble  per 
sons  went  to  Akamagaseki  to  hear  him  recite ; 
and  large  presents  of  money  were  given  to  him, 
—  so  that  he  became  a  wealthy  man.  .  .  .  But 
from  the  time  of  his  adventure,  he  was  known 
only  by  the  appellation  of  Mimi-nashi-Hoichi : 
"  Hojfchi-the-Earless." 


20 


THERE  was  a  falconer  and  hunter, 
named  Son  jo,  who  lived  in  the  district  called 
Tamura-no-Go,  of  the  province  of  Mutsu.  One 
day  he  went  out  hunting,  and  could  not  find 
any  game.  But  on  his  way  home,  at  a  place 
called  Akanuma,  he  perceived  a  pair  of  oshidori l 
(mandarin-ducks),  swimming  together  in  a  river 
that  he  was  about  to  cross.  To  kill  oshidori  is 
not  good ;  but  Sonjo  happened  to  be  very  hun 
gry,  and  he  shot  at  the  pair.  His  arrow  pierced 
the  male :  the  female  escaped  into  the  rushes 

1  From  ancient  time,  in  the  Far  East,  these  birds  have 
been  regarded  as  emblems  of  conjugal  affection. 


ft 


of  the   further  shore,  and  disappeared.    Sonjo 
took  the  dead  bird  home,  and  cooked  it. 

That  night  he  dreamed  a  dreary 
dream.  It  seemed  to  him  that  a  beautiful  woman 
came  into  his  room,  and  stood  by  his  pillow,  and 
began  to  weep.  So  bitterly  did  she  weep  that 
Sonjo  felt  as  if  his  heart  were  being  torn  out 
while  he  listened.  And  the  woman  cried  to 
him  :  "  Why,  —  oh  !  why  did  you  kill  him  ?  — 
of  what  wrong  was  he  guilty  ?  .  .  .  At  Aka- 
numa  we  were  so  happy  together,  —  and  you 
killed  him !  .  .  .  What  harm  did  he  ever  do 
you  ?  Do  you  even  know  what  you  have  done  ? 
—  oh !  do  you  know  what  a  cruel,  what  a  wicked 
thing  you  have  done  ?  .  .  .  Me  too  you  have 
killed,  —  for  I  will  not  live  without  my  hus 
band  !  .  .  .  Only  to  tell  you  this  I  came/'  .  .  . 
Then  again  she  wept  aloud,  —  so  bitterly  that 
the  voice  of  her  crying  pierced  into  the  mar 
row  of  the  listener's  bones ;  — and  she  sobbed 
out  the  words  of  this  poem  :  — 

Hi  kurureba 
Sasoeshi  mono  wo  — 

Akanuma  no 
Makomo  no  kure"  no 
Hitori-n6  zo  uki ! 

[  "  At  the  coming  of  twilight  I  invited  him 
to  return  with  me — /  Now  to  sleep  alone  in  the 
24 


shadow  of  the  rushes  of  Akanuma  —  ah  !  what  misery 
unspeakable  I"  ]* 

And  after  having  uttered  these  verses  she  ex 
claimed  :  —  "  Ah,  you  do  not  know  —  you  can 
not  know  what  you  have  done  !  But  to-morrow, 
when  you  go  to  Akanuma,  you  will  see,  —  you 
will  see.  ..."  So  saying,  and  weeping  very 
piteously,  she  went  away. 

When  Sonjo  awoke  in  the  morning, 
this  dream  remained  so  vivid  in  his  mind  that 
he  was  greatly  troubled.  He  remembered  the 
words  :  — "  But  to-morrow,  when  you  go  to 
Akanuma,  you  will  see,  —  you  will  see."  And 
he  resolved  to  go  there  at  once,  that  he  might 
learn  whether  his  dream  was  anything  more 
than  a  dream. 

So  he  went  to  Akanuma ;  and  there, 
when  he  came  to  the  river-bank,  he  saw  the 
female  oshidori  swimming  alone.  In  the  same 
moment  the  bird  perceived  Sonjo ;  but,  instead 
of  trying  to  escape,  she  swam  straight  towards 

1  There  is  a  pathetic  double  meaning  in  the  third  verse ; 
for  the  syllables  composing  the  proper  name  Akanuma 
("  Red  Marsh  ")  may  also  be  read  as  akanu-ma,  signifying 
"  the  time  of  our  inseparable  (or  delightful)  relation."  So 
the  poem  can  also  be  thus  rendered:  —  "When  the  day 
began  to  fail,  I  had  invited  him  to  accompany  me.  .  .  . !  Now, 
after  the  time  of  that  happy  relation,  what  misery  for  the 
one  who  must  slumber  alone  in  the  shadow  of  the  rushes  !  " 
—  The  makomo  is  a  sort  of  large  rush,  used  for  making 
baskets. 

25 


him,  looking  at  him  the  while  in  a  strange  fixed 
way.  Then,  with  her  beak,  she  suddenly  tore 
open  her  own  body,  and  died  before  the  hunter's 
eyes.  .  .  . 

Son]  6  shaved  his  head,  and  became 
a  priest. 


26 


OF 


OF 


A  LONG  time  ago,  in  the  town  of  Nii- 
gata,  in  the  province  of  Echizen,  there  lived  a 
man  called  Nagao  Chosei. 

Nagao  was  the  son  of  a  physician, 
and  was  educated  for  his  father's  profession. 
At  an  early  age  he  had  been  betrothed  to  a 
girl  called  O-Tei,  the  daughter  of  one  of  his 
father's  friends  ;  and  both  families  had  agreed 
that  the  wedding  should  take  place  a^  soon  as 
Nagao  had  finished  his  studies.  But  the  health 
of  O-Tei  proved  to  be  weak  ;  and  in  her  fifteenth 
year  she  was  attacked  by  a  fatal  consumption. 


fK£%  When  she  became  aware  that  she  must  die,  she 
sent  for  Nagao  to  bid  him  farewell. 

As  he  knelt  at  her  bedside,  she  said  to 
him  :  — 

"  Nagao-Sama,  my  betrothed,  we  were 
promised  to  each  other  from  the  time  of  our 
childhood ;  and  we  were  to  have  been  married 
at  the  end  of  this  year.  But  now  I  am  going  to 
die  ;  —  the  gods  know  what  is  best  for  us.  If  I 
were  able  to  live  for  some  years  longer,  I  could 
only  continue  to  be  a  cause  of  trouble  and  grief 
to  others.  With  this  frail  body,  I  could  not  be 
a  good  wife ;  and  therefore  even  to  wish  to  live, 
for  your  sake,  would  be  a  very  selfish  wish.  I 
am  quite  resigned  to  die  ;  and  I  want  you  to 
promise  that  you  will  not  grieve.  .  .  .  Besides, 
I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  think  we  shall  meet 
again."  .  .  . 

"  Indeed  we  shall  meet  again,"  Nagao 
answered  earnestly.  "  And  in  that  Pure  Land 
there  will  be  no  pain  of  separation." 

"Nay,  nay!"  she  responded  softly, 
"I  meant  not  the  Pure  Land.  I  believe  that  we 
are  destined  to  meet  again  in  this  world,  —  al 
though  I  shall  be  buried  to-morrow." 

Nagao  looked  at  her  wonderingly,  and 
saw  her  smile  at  his  wonder.  She  continued, 
in  her  gentle,  dreamy  voice,  — 


"  Yes,  I  mean  in  this  world,  —  in 
your  own  present  life,  Nagao-Sama.  .  .  .  Pro 
viding,  indeed,  that  you  wish  it.  Only,  for  this 
thing  to  happen,  I  must  again  be  born  a  girl, 
and  grow  up  to  womanhood.  So  you  would 
have  to  wait.  Fifteen  —  sixteen  years  :  that 
is  a  long  time.  .  .  .  But,  my  promised  husband, 
you  are  now  only  nineteen  years  old."  .  .  . 

Eager  to  soothe  her  dying  moments, 
he  answered  tenderly  :  — 

"To  wait  for  you,  my  betrothed, 
were  no  less  a  joy  than  a  duty.  We  are 
pledged  to  each  other  for  the  time  of  seven  ex 
istences." 

"  But  you  doubt?"  she  questioned, 
watching  his  face. 

"  My  dear  one,"  he  answered,  "  I  doubt 
whether  I  should  be  able  to  know  you  in  another 
body,  under  another  name,  —  unless  you  can  tell 
me  of  a  sign  or  token." 

"  That  I  cannot  do,"  she  said.  "  Only 
the  Gods  and  the  Buddhas  know  how  and  where 
we  shall  meet.  But  I  am  sure  —  very,  very 
sure  —  that,  if  you  be  not  unwilling  to  receive 
me,  I  shall  be  able  to  come  back  to  you.  .  .  . 
Remember  these  words  of  mine."  .  .  . 

She  ceased  to  speak  ;  and  her  eyes 
closed.  She  was  dead. 


* 
#       # 

Nagao  had  been  sincerely  attached  to 
O-Tei ;  and  his  grief  was  deep.  He  had  a  mor 
tuary  tablet  made,  inscribed  with  her  zokumyd'* 
and  he  placed  the  tablet  in  his  butsudan?  and 
every  day  set  offerings  before  it.  He  thought  a 
great  deal  about  the  strange  things  that  O-Tei 
had  said  to  him  just  before  her  death  ;  and,  in 
the  hope  of  pleasing  her  spirit,  he  wrote  a  sol 
emn  promise  to  wed  her  if  she  could  ever  return 
to  him  in  another  body.  This  written  promise 
he  sealed  with  his  seal,  and  placed  in  the  butsu- 
dan  beside  the  mortuary  tablet  of  O-Tei. 

Nevertheless,  as  Nagao  was  an  only 
son,  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  marry.  He 
soon  found  himself  obliged  to  yield  to  the  wishes 
of  his  family,  and  to  accept  a  wife  of  his  father's 
choosing.  After  his  marriage  he  continued  to 

1  The  Buddhist  term  zokumyo  ("profane  name  ")  signifies 
the  personal  name,  borne  during  life,  in  contradistinction  to 
the  kaimyo  ("  sila-name  ")  or  homyo  ("  Law-name  ") given  after 
death,  —  religious  posthumous  appellations  inscribed  upon 
the  tomb,  and  upon  the  mortuary  tablet  in  the  parish-temple. 
—  For  some  account  of  these,  see  my  paper  entitled,  "  The 
Literature  of  the  Dead,"  in  Exotics  and  Retrospectives. 

2  Buddhist  household  shrine. 


set  offerings  before  the  tablet  of  O-Tei;  and     ££+ 
he  never  failed  to  remember  her  with  affection. 
But  by  degrees  her  image  became  dim  in  his 
memory,  —  like  a  dream  that  is  hard  to  recall. 
And  the  years  went  by. 

During  those  years  many  misfortunes 
came  upon  him.  He  lost  his  parents  by  death, 
—  then  his  wife  and  his  only  child.  So  that  he 
found  himself  alone  in  the  world.  He  aban 
doned  his  desolate  home,  and  set  out  upon  a 
long  journey  in  the  hope  of  forgetting  his  sor 
rows. 


One  day,  in  the  course  of  his  travels, 
he  arrived  at  Ikao, — a  mountain-village  still 
famed  for  its  thermal  springs,  and  for  the  beau 
tiful  scenery  of  its  neighborhood.  In  the  village- 
inn  at  which  he  stopped,  a  young  girl  came  to 
wait  upon  him ;  and,  at  the  first  sight  of  her 
face,  he  felt  his  heart  leap  as  it  had  never  leaped 
before.  So  strangely  did  she  resemble  O-Tei 
that  he  pinched  himself  to  make  sure  that  he 
was  not  dreaming.  As  she  went  and  came,  — 
bringing  fire  and  food,  or  arranging  the  cham 
ber  of  the  guest,  —  her  every  attitude  and  mo 
tion  revived  in  him  some  gracious  memory  of 
the  girl  to  whom  he  had  been  pledged  in  his 
youth.  He  spoke  to  her  ;  and  she  responded  in 


33 


a  soft,  clear  voice  of  which  the  sweetness  sad- 
dened  him  with  a  sadness  of  other  days. 

Then,  in  great  wonder,  he  questioned 
her,  saying  :  — 

"  Elder  Sister,  so  much  do  you  look 
like  a  person  whom  I  knew  long  ago,  that  I 
was  startled  when  you  first  entered  this  room. 
Pardon  me,  therefore,  for  asking  what  is  your 
native  place,  and  what  is  your  name  ?  " 

Immediately,  —  and  in  the  unf orgot- 
ten  voice  of  the  dead,  —  she  thus  made  an 
swer  :  — 

"  My  name  is  O-Tei ;  and  you  are 
Nagao  Chosei  of  Echigo,  my  promised  hus 
band.  Seventeen  years  ago,  I  died  in  Niigata : 
then  you  made  in  writing  a  promise  to  marry 
me  if  ever  I  could  come  back  to  this  world  in 
the  body  of  a  woman ;  —  and  you  sealed  that 
written  promise  with  your  seal,  and  put  it  in 
the  butsudan,  beside  the  tablet  inscribed  with 
my  name.  And  therefore  I  came  back."  .  .  . 

As  she  uttered  these  last  words,  she 
fell  unconscious. 

Nagao  married  her  ;  and  the  marriage 
was  a  happy  one.  But  at  no  time  afterwards 
could  she  remember  what  she  had  told  him  in 
answer  to  his  question  at  Ikao :  neither  could 


34 


she  remember  anything  of  her  previous  exist-      t£+ 
ence.    The  recollection  of  the  former  birth, — 
mysteriously  kindled   in   the   moment  of  that 
meeting,  —  had  again  become  obscured,  and  so 
thereafter  remained. 


35 


THREE  hundred  years  ago,  in  the  vil 
lage  called  Asamimura,  in  the  district  called 
Onsengori,  in  the  province  of  lyo,  there  lived  a 
good  man  named  Tokubei.  This  Tokubei  was 
the  richest  person  in  the  district,  and  the  mzt- 
raosa,  or  headman,  of  the  village.  In  most 
matters  he  was  fortunate ;  but  he  reached  the 
age  of  forty  without  knowing  the  happiness  of 
becoming  a  father.  Therefore  he  and  his  wife, 
in  the  affliction  of  their  childlessness,  addressed 
many  prayers  to  the  divinity  Fudo  My 6  O,  who 
had  a  famous  temple,  called  Saihoji,  in  Asami 
mura. 

At  last  their  prayers  were  heard :  the 

39 


f'/^ 
A 


wife  of  Tokubei  gave  birth  to  a  daughter.  The 
child  was  very  pretty ;  and  she  received  the 
name  of  Tsuyu.  As  the  mother's  milk  was  de 
ficient,  a  milk-nurse,  called  O-Sode,  was  hired 
for  the  little  one. 

O-Tsuyu  grew  up  to  be  a  very  beauti 
ful  girl ;  but  at  the  age  of  fifteen  she  fell  sick, 
and  the  doctors  thought  that  she  was  going  to 
die.  In  that  time  the  nurse  O-Sode,  who  loved 
O-Tsuyu  with  a  real  mother's  love,  went  to 
the  temple  Saihoji,  and  fervently  prayed  to 
Fud5-Sama  on  behalf  of  the  girl.  Every  day, 
for  twenty-one  days,  she  went  to  the  temple  and 
prayed  ;  and  at  the  end  of  that  time,  O-Tsuyu 
suddenly  and  completely  recovered. 

Then  there  was  great  rejoicing  in  the 
house  of  Tokubei ;  and  he  gave  a  feast  to  all 
his  friends  in  celebration  of  the  happy  event. 
But  on  the  night  of  the  feast  the  nurse  O-Sode 
was  suddenly  taken  ill ;  and  on  the  following 
morning,  the  doctor,  who  had  been  summoned 
to  attend  her,  announced  that  she  was  dying. 

Then  the  family,  in  great  sorrow, 
gathered  about  her  bed,  to  bid  her  farewell. 
But  she  said  to  them  :  — 

"  It  is  time  that  I  should  tell  you 
something  which  you  do  not  know.  My  prayer 
has  been  heard.  I  besought  Fudo-Sama  that  I 
40 


might   be   permitted    to   die    in    the    place  of     T^ 
O-Tsuyu ;  and  this  great  favor  has  been  granted 
me.    Therefore  you  must  not  grieve  about  my    «£"»£ 
death.  .  .  .  But  I  have  one  request  to  make.     Ct/C 
I   promised   Fudo-Sama  that  I   would  have  a 
cherry-tree  planted  in  the  garden  of  Saihoji, 
for  a  thank-offering  and  a  commemoration.   Now 
I   shall  not  be  able  myself  to  plant   the  tree 
there :  so  I  must  beg  that  you  will  fulfill  that 
vow  for  me.   .  .  .  Good-bye,  dear  friends ;    and 
remember  that  I  was  happy  to  die  for  O-Tsuyu's 
sake." 


After  the  funeral  of  O-Sode,  a  young 
cherry-tree,  —  the  finest  that  could  be  found,  — 
was  planted  in  the  garden  of  Saihoji  by  the 
parents  of  O-Tsuyu.  The  tree  grew  and  flour 
ished  ;  and  on  the  sixteenth  day  of  the  second 
month  of  the  following  year,  —  the  anniversary 
of  O-Sode's  death,  —  it  blossomed  in  a  wonder 
ful  way.  So  it  continued  to  blossom  for  two 
hundred  and  fifty-four  years,  —  always  upon  the 
sixteenth  day  of  the  second  month ;  —  and  its 
flowers,  pink  and  white,  were  like  the  nipples  of 
a  woman's  breasts,  bedewed  with  milk.  And 
the  people  called  it  Ubazakura,  the  Cherry-tree 
of  the  Milk-Nurse. 


IT  had  been  ordered  that  the  execution 
should  take  place  in  the  garden  of  the  yashiki. 
So  the  man  was  taken  there,  and  made  to  kneel 
clown  in  a  wide  sanded  space  crossed  by  a  line 
of  tobi-iski,  or  stepping-stones,  such  as  you  may 
still  see  in  Japanese  landscape-gardens.  His 
arms  were  bound  behind  him.  Retainers  brought 
water  in  buckets,  and  rice-bags  filled  with  peb 
bles  ;  and  they  packed  the  rice-bags  round  the 
kneeling  man,  —  so  wedging  him  in  that  he 
could  not  move.  The  master  came,  and  observed 
the  arrangements.  He  found  them  satisfactory, 
and  made  no  remarks. 


45 


Suddenly  the  condemned  man  cried 
out  to  him  :  — 

"  Honored  Sir,  the  fault  for  which  I 
have  been  doomed  I  did  not  wittingly  commit. 
It  was  only  my  very  great  stupidity  which 
caused  the  fault.  Having  been  born  stupid,  by 
reason  of  my  Karma,  I  could  not  always  help 
making  mistakes.  But  to  kill  a  man  for  being 
stupid  is  wrong,  —  and  that  wrong  will  be  re 
paid.  So  surely  as  you  kill  me,  so  surely  shall 
I  be  avenged ;  —  out  of  the  resentment  that 
you  provoke  will  come  the  vengeance ;  and  evil 
will  be  rendered  for  evil."  .  .  . 

If  any  person  be  killed  while  feeling 
strong  resentment,  the  ghost  of  that  person 
will  be  able  to  take  vengeance  upon  the  killer. 
This  the  samurai  knew.  He  replied  very  gently, 
—  almost  caressingly  :  — 

"We  shall  allow  you  to  frighten  us 
as  much  as  you  please  —  after  you  are  dead. 
But  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  you  mean  what 
you  say.  Will  you  try  to  give  us  some  sign  of 
your  great  resentment  —  after  your  head  has 
been  cut  off  ? " 

"Assuredly  I  will,"  answered  the 
man. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  samurai,  draw 
ing  his  long  sword  ;  —  "I  am  now  going  to  cut 
off  your  head.  Directly  in  front  of  you  there  is 
46 


a  stepping-stone.    After   your  head   has   been     $&% 
cut  off,  try  to  bite  the  stepping-stone.    If  your 
angry  ghost  can  help  you  to  do  that,  some  of 
us  may  be  frightened.  .  .  .  Will  you  try  to 
bite  the  stone?" 

"  I  will  bite  it !  "  cried  the  man,  in 
great  anger,  —  "I  will  bite  it  1  —  I  will  bite  "  - 

There  was  a  flash,  a  swish,  a  crunch 
ing  thud  :  the  bound  body  bowed  over  the 
rice  sacks,  —  two  long  blood-jets  pumping  from 
the  shorn  neck; — and  the  head  rolled  upon 
the  sand.  Heavily  toward  the  stepping-stone 
it  rolled:  then,  suddenly  bounding,  it  caught 
the  upper  edge  of  the  stone  between  its  teeth, 
clung  desperately  for  a  moment,  and  dropped 
inert. 

None  spoke  ;  but  the  retainers  stared 
in  hcrror  at  their  master.  He  seemed  to  be 
quite  unconcerned.  He  merely  held  out  his 
sword  to  the  nearest  attendant,  who,  with  a 
wooden  dipper,  poured  water  over  the  blade 
from  haft  to  point,  and  then  carefully  wiped  the 
steel  several  times  with  sheets  of  soft  paper. 
.  .  .  And  thus  ended  the  ceremonial  part  of  the 
incident. 

For  months  thereafter,  the  retainers 
and  the  domestics  lived  in  ceaseless  fear  of 

47 


ghostly  visitation.  None  of  them  doubted  that 
the  promised  vengeance  would  come  ;  and  their 
constant  terror  caused  them  to  hear  and  to  see 
much  that  did  not  exist.  They  became  afraid 
of  the  sound  of  the  wind  in  the  bamboos,  — 
afraid  even  of  the  stirring  of  shadows  in  the 
garden.  At  last,  after  taking  counsel  together, 
they  decided  to  petition  their  master  to  have 
a  >SV£-<z/h-service  performed  on  behalf  of  the 
vengeful  spirit. 

"  Quite  unnecessary,"  the  samurai 
said,  when  his  chief  retainer  had  uttered  the 
general  wish.  ..."  I  understand  that  the  de 
sire  of  a  dying  man  for  revenge  may  be  a  cause 
for  fear.  But  in  this  case  there  is  nothing  to 
fear." 

The  retainer  looked  at  his  master  be 
seechingly,  but  hesitated  to  ask  the  reason  of 
this  alarming  confidence. 

"  Oh,  the  reason  is  simple  enough," 
declared  the  samurai,  divining  the  unspoken 
doubt.  "  Only  the  very  last  intention  of  that 
fellow  could  have  been  dangerous  ;  and  when  I 
challenged  him  to  give  me  the  sign,  I  diverted 
his  mind  from  the  desire  of  revenge.  He  died 
with  the  set  purpose  of  biting  the  stepping- 
stone  ;  and  that  purpose  he  was  able  to  accom 
plish,  but  nothing  else.  All  the  rest  he  must 


have  forgotten.  ...  So  you  need  not  feel  any 
further  anxiety  about  the  matter." 

—  And  indeed  the  dead  man  gave  no 
more  trouble.   Nothing  at  all  happened. 


49 


J3EU, 


BEU. 


EIGHT  centuries  ago,  the  priests  of 
Mugenyama,  in  the  province  of  Totomi,  wanted 
a  big  bell  for  their  temple ;  and  they  asked  the 
women  of  their  parish  to  help  them  by  contrib 
uting  old  bronze  mirrors  for  bell-metal. 

[  Even  to-day,  in  the  courts  of  certain 
Japanese  temples,  you  may  see  heaps  of  old 
bronze  mirrors  contributed  for  such  a  purpose. 
The  largest  collection  of  this  kind  that  I  ever 
saw  was  in  the  court  of  a  temple  of  the  Jodo 
sect,  at  Hakata,  in  Kyushu  :  the  mirrors  had 

53 


f^     been  given  for  the  making  of  a  bronze  statue 
Jt     of  Amida,  thirty-three  feet  high.] 


There  was  at  that  time  a  young 
woman,  a  farmer's  wife,  living  at  Mugenyama, 
who  presented  her  mirror  to  the  temple,  to  be 
used  for  bell-metal.  But  afterwards  she  much 
regretted  her  mirror.  She  remembered  things 
that  her  mother  had  told  her  about  it ;  and  she 
remembered  that  it  had  belonged,  not  only  to 
her  mother  but  to  her  mother's  mother  and 
grandmother  ;  and  she  remembered  some  happy 
smiles  which  it  had  reflected.  Of  course,  if  she 
could  have  offered  the  priests  a  certain  sum  of 
money  in  place  of  the  mirror,  she  could  have 
asked  them  to  give  back  her  heirloom.  But 
she  had  not  the  money  necessary.  Whenever  she 
went  to  the  temple,  she  saw  her  mirror  lying 
in  the  court-yard,  behind  a  railing,  among  hun 
dreds  of  other  mirrors  heaped  there  together. 
She  knew  it  by  the  Sho-Chiku-Bai  in  relief  on 
the  back  of  it,  —  those  three  fortunate  em 
blems  of  Pine,  Bamboo,  and  Plumflower,  which 
delighted  her  baby-eyes  when  her  mother  first 
showed  her  the  mirror.  She  longed  for  some 
chance  to  steal  the  mirror,  and  hide  it,  —  that 
she  might  thereafter  treasure  it  always.  But  the 
chance  did  not  come ;  and  she  became  very  un 
happy,  —  felt  as  if  she  had  foolishly  given  away 
54 


a  part  of  her  life.  She  thought  about  the  old 
saying  that  a  mirror  is  the  Soul  of  a  Woman  — 
(a  saying  mystically  expressed,  by  the  Chinese  * 
character  for  Soul,  upon  the  backs  of  many 
bronze  mirrors),  —  and  she  feared  that  it  was 
true  in  weirder  ways  than  she  had  before  im 
agined.  But  she  could  not  dare  to  speak  of  her 
pain  to  anybody. 

Now,  when  all  the  mirrors  contributed 
for  the  Mugenyama  bell  had  been  sent  to  the 
foundry,  the  bell-founders  discovered  that  there 
was  one  mirror  among  them  which  would  not 
melt.  Again  and  again  they  tried  to  melt  it ; 
but  it  resisted  all  their  efforts.  Evidently  the 
woman  who  had  given  that  mirror  to  the  temple 
must  have  regretted  the  giving.  She  had  not 
presented  her  offering  with  all  her  heart ;  and 
therefore  her  selfish  soul,  remaining  attached  to 
the  mirror,  kept  it  hard  and  cold  in  the  midst 
of  the  furnace. 

Of  course  everybody  heard  of  the 
matter,  and  everybody  soon  knew  whose  mirror 
it  was  that  would  not  melt.  And  because  of 
this  public  exposure  of  her  secret  fault,  the  poor 
woman  became  very  much  ashamed  and  very 
angry.  And  as  she  could  not  bear  the  shame, 
she  drowned  herself,  after  having  written  a  fare 
well  letter  containing  these  words  :  — 

55 


- 


"  When  I  am  dead,  it  will  not  be  dif- 
ficult  to  melt  the  mirror  and  to  cast  the  bell. 
But,  to  the  person  who  breaks  that  bell  by  ring 
ing  it,  great  wealth  will  be  given  by  the  ghost 
of  me." 

—  You  must  know  that  the  last  wish 
or  promise  of  anybody  who  dies  in  anger,  or 
performs  suicide  in  anger,  is  generally  supposed 
to  possess  a  supernatural  force.  After  the  dead 
woman's  mirror  had  been  melted,  and  the  bell 
had  been  successfully  cast,  people  remembered 
the  words  of  that  letter.  They  felt  sure  that 
the  spirit  of  the  writer  would  give  wealth  to  the 
breaker  of  the  bell ;  and,  as  soon  as  the  bell 
had  been  suspended  in  the  court  of  the  tem 
ple,  they  went  in  multitude  to  ring  it.  With 
all  their  might  and  main  they  swung  the  ring 
ing-beam  ;  but  the  bell  proved  to  be  a  good 
bell,  and  it  bravely  withstood  their  assaults. 
Nevertheless,  the  people  were  not  easily  dis 
couraged.  Day  after  day,  at  all  hours,  they 
continued  to  ring  the  bell  furiously, — caring 
nothing  whatever  for  the  protests  of  the  priests. 
So  the  ringing  became  an  affliction  ;  and  the 
priests  could  not  endure  it ;  and  they  got  rid  of 
the  bell  by  rolling  it  down  the  hill  into  a  swamp. 
The  swamp  was  deep,  and  swallowed  it  up,  — 
and  that  was  the  end  of  the  bell.  Only  its 

56 


legend  remains  ;  and  in  that  legend  it  is  called 
the  Mugen-Kant,  or  Bell  of  Mugen. 


Now  there  are  queer  old  Japanese  be 
liefs  in  the  magical  efficacy  of  a  certain  mental 
operation  implied,  though  not  described,  by  the 
verb  nazoraeru.  The  word  itself  cannot  be  ade 
quately  rendered  by  any  English  word  ;  for  it 
is  used  in  relation  to  many  kinds  of  mimetic 
magic,  as  well  as  in  relation  to  the  performance 
of  many  religious  acts  of  faith.  Common  mean 
ings  of  nazoraeru,  according  to  dictionaries,  are 
"  to  imitate,"  "  to  compare,"  "  to  liken  ;  "  but~\ 
the  esoteric  meaning  is  to  substitute,  in  imagi 
nation,  one  object  or  action  for  another,  so  as  to 
bring  about  some  magical  or  miraculous  result. 

For  example  :  —  you  cannot  afford  to 
build  a  Buddhist  temple  ;  but  you  can  easily 
lay  a  pebble  before  the  image  of  the  Buddha, 
with  the  same  pious  feeling  that  would  prompt 
you  to  build  a  temple  if  you  were  rich  enough 
to  build  one.  The  merit  of  so  offering  the  peb 
ble  becomes  equal,  or  almost  equal,  to  the  merit 
of  erecting  a  temple.  .  .  .  You  cannot  read  the 
six  thousand  seven  hundred  and  seventy-one 

57 


ft 


volumes  of  the  Buddhist  texts  ;  but  you  can 
make  a  revolving  library,  containing  them,  turn 
round,  by  pushing  it  like  a  windlass.  And  if 
you  push  with  an  earnest  wish  that  you  could 
read  the  six  thousand  seven  hundred  and  sev 
enty-one  volumes,  you  will  acquire  the  same 
merit  as  the  reading  of  them  would  enable  you 
to  gain.  ...  So  much  will  perhaps  suffice  to 
explain  the  religious  meanings  of  nazoraeru. 

The  magical  meanings  could  not  all 
be  explained  without  a  great  variety  of  exam 
ples  ;  but,  for  present  purposes,  the  following 
will  serve.  If  you  should  make  a  little  man  of 
straw,  for  the  same  reason  that  Sister  Helen 
made  a  little  man  of  wax,  —  and  nail  it,  with 
nails  not  less  than  five  inches  long,  to  some  tree 
in  a  temple-grove  at  the  Hour  of  the  Ox,  — 
and  if  the  person,  imaginatively  represented  by 
that  little  straw  man,  should  die  thereafter  in 
atrocious  agony,  —  that  would  illustrate  one 
signification  of  nazoraeru.  .  .  .  Or,  let  us  sup 
pose  that  a  robber  has  entered  your  house  dur 
ing  the  night,  and  carried  away  your  valuables. 
If  you  can  discover  the  footprints  of  that  rob 
ber  in  your  garden,  and  then  promptly  burn  a 
very  large  moxa  on  each  of  them,  the  soles  of 
the  feet  of  the  robber  will  become  inflamed,  and 
will  allow  him  no  rest  until  he  returns,  of  his 
own  accord,  to  put  himself  at  your  mercy. 
58 


That  is  another  kind  of  mimetic  magic  ex-  Cjfc^ 
pressed  by  the  term  nazoraeru.  And  a  third  f  Jt 
kind  is  illustrated  by  various  legends  of  the 
Mugen-Kane. 

After  the  bell  had  been  rolled  into 
the  swamp,  there  was,  of  course,  no  more 
chance  of  ringing  it  in  such  wise  as  to  break  it. 
But  persons  who  regretted  this  loss  of  oppor 
tunity  would  strike  and  break  objects  imagina 
tively  substituted  for  the  bell,  —  thus  hoping  to 
please  the  spirit  of  the  owner  of  the  mirror  that 
had  made  so  much  trouble.  One  of  these  per 
sons  was  a  woman  called  Umegae,  —  famed  in 
Japanese  legend  because  of  her  relation  to  Kaji- 
wara  Kagesue,  a  warrior  of  the  Heike  clan. 
While  the  pair  were  traveling  together,  Kaji- 
wara  one  day  found  himself  in  great  straits  for 
want  of  money ;  and  Umegae,  remembering 
the  tradition  of  the  Bell  of  Mugen,  took  a  basin 
of  bronze,  and,  mentally  representing  it  to  be 
the  bell,  beat  upon  it  until  she  broke  it,  —  cry 
ing  out,  at  the  same  time,  for  three  hundred 
pieces  of  gold.  A  guest  of  the  inn  where  the 
pair  were  stopping  made  inquiry  as  to  the  cause 
of  the  banging  and  the  crying,  and,  on  learning 
the  story  of  the  trouble,  actually  presented 
Ume'gae  with  three  hundred  ryo  in  gold.  After 
wards  a  song  was  made  about  Ume"gae's  basin 

59 


ft 


of  bronze ;  and  that  song  is  sung  by  dancing- 
girls  even  to  this  day  :  — 

Um£gae  no  chozubachi  tataft£ 
O-kan6  ga  de>u  naraba, 
Mina  San  mi-uk6  wo 
Sor£  tanomimasu. 

["•#  by  striking  upon  the  wash-basin  of 
Umegae,  I  could  make  honorable  money  come  to  me^ 
then  would  I  negotiate  for  the  freedom  of  all  my  girl- 
comrades"} 

After  this  happening,  the  fame  of  the 
Mugen-Kan6  became  great ;  and  many  people 
followed  the  example  of  Umegae,  —  thereby 
hoping  to  emulate  her  luck.  Among  these  folk 
was  a  dissolute  farmer  who  lived  near  Mugen- 
yama,  on  the  bank  of  the  Ufgawa.  Having 
wasted  his  substance  in  riotous  living,  this 
farmer  made  for  himself,  out  of  the  mud  in  his 
garden,  a  clay-model  of  the  Mugen-Kane" ;  and 
he  beat  the  clay-bell,  and  broke  it,  —  crying  out 
the  while  for  great  wealth. 

Then,  out  of  the  ground  before  him, 
rose  up  the  figure  of  a  white-robed  woman,  with 
long  loose-flowing  hair,  holding  a  covered  jar. 
And  the  woman  said :  "I  have  come  to  an 
swer  your  fervent  prayer  as  it  deserves  to  be 
answered.  Take,  therefore,  this  jar."  So  say- 
60 


ing,  she  put  the  jar  into  his  hands,  and  disap-       t 
peared. 

Into  his  house  the  happy  man  rushed, 
to  tell  his  wife  the  good  news.  He  set  down 
in  front  of  her  the  covered  jar,  —  which  was 
heavy,  —  and  they  opened  it  together.  And 
they  found  that  it  was  filled,  up  to  the  very 
brim,  with  .  .  . 

But,  no ! — I  really  cannot  tell  you  with 
what  it  was  filled. 


61 


ONCE,  when  Muso  Kokushi,  a  priest 
of  the  Zen  sect,  was  journeying  alone  through 
the  province  of  Mino,  he  lost  his  way  in  a  moun 
tain-district  where  there  was  nobody  to  direct 
him.  For  a  long  time  he  wandered  about  help 
lessly  ;  and  he  was  beginning  to  despair  of  rind 
ing  shelter  for  the  night,  when  he  perceived,  on 
the  top  of  a  hill  lighted  by  the  last  rays  of  the 
sun,  one  of  those  little  hermitages,  called  anjitsu, 
which  are  built  for  solitary  priests.  It  seemed 
to  be  in  a  ruinous  condition  ;  but  he  hastened 
to  it  eagerly,  and  found  that  it  was  inhabited  by 
an  aged  priest,  from  whom  he  begged  the  favor 
of  a  night's  lodging.  This  the  old  man  harshly 

65 


refused;  but  he  directed  Mus5  to  a  certain 
f  A  hamlet,  in  the  valley  adjoining,  where  lodging 
and  food  could  be  obtained. 

Mus5  found  his  way  to  the  hamlet, 
which  consisted  of  less  than  a  dozen  farm-cot 
tages  ;  and  he  was  kindly  received  at  the  dwell 
ing  of  the  headman.  Forty  or  fifty  persons 
were  assembled  in  the  principal  apartment,  at 
the  moment  of  Muso's  arrival ;  but  he  was 
shown  into  a  small  separate  room,  where  he  was 
promptly  supplied  with  food  and  bedding.  Be 
ing  very  tired,  he  lay  down  to  rest  at  an  early 
hour ;  but  a  little  before  midnight  he  was  roused 
from  sleep  by  a  sound  of  loud  weeping  in  the 
next  apartment.  Presently  the  sliding-screens 
were  gently  pushed  apart ;  and  a  young  man, 
carrying  a  lighted  lantern,  entered  the  room, 
respectfully  saluted  him,  and  said  :  — 

"  Reverend  Sir,  it  is  my  painful  duty 
to  tell  you  that  I  am  now  the  responsible  head 
of  this  house.  Yesterday  I  was  only  the  eldest 
son.  But  when  you  came  here,  tired  as  you 
were,  we  did  not  wish  that  you  should  feel 
embarrassed  in  any  way  :  therefore  we  did  not 
tell  you  that  father  had  died  only  a  few  hours 
before.  The  people  whom  you  saw  in  the  next 
room  are  the  inhabitants  of  this  village :  they 
all  assembled  here  to  pay  their  last  respects  to 
the  dead;  and  now  they  are  going  to  another 
66 


village,  about  three  miles  off,  —  for,  by  our 
custom,  no  one  of  us  may  remain  in  this  village 
during  the  night  after  a  death  has  taken  place. 
We  make  the  proper  offerings  and  prayers  ;  — 
then  we  go  away,  leaving  the  corpse  alone. 
Strange  things  always  happen  in  the  house  where 
a  corpse  has  thus  been  left :  so  we  think  that 
it  will  be  better  for  you  to  come  away  with  us. 
We  can  find  you  good  lodging  in  the  other  vil 
lage.  But  perhaps,  as  you  are  a  priest,  you  have 
no  fear  of  demons  or  evil  spirits ;  and,  if  you 
are  not  afraid  of  being  left  alone  with  the  body, 
you  will  be  very  welcome  to  the  use  of  this  poor 
house.  However,  I  must  tell  you  that  nobody, 
except  a  priest,  would  dare  to  remain  here  to 
night." 

Muso  made  answer  :  — 

"  For  your  kind  intention  and  your 
generous  hospitality,  I  am  deeply  grateful.  But 
I  am  sorry  that  you  did  not  tell  me  of  your 
father's  death  when  I  came  ;  —  for,  though  I 
was  a  little  tired,  I  certainly  was  not  so  tired  that 
I  should  have  found  any  difficulty  in  doing  my 
duty  as  a  priest.  Had  you  told  me,  I  could  have 
performed  the  service  before  your  departure.  As 
it  is,  I  shall  perform  the  service  after  you  have 
gone  away ;  and  I  shall  stay  by  the  body  until 
morning.  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by 
your  words  about  the  danger  of  staying  here 


alone  ;  but  I  am  not  afraid  of  ghosts  or  demons  : 
therefore  please  to  feel  no  anxiety  on  my  ac 
count." 

The  young  man  appeared  to  be  re 
joiced  by  these  assurances,  and  expressed  his 
gratitude  in  fitting  words.  Then  the  other  mem 
bers  of  the  family,  and  the  folk  assembled  in 
the  adjoining  room,  having  been  told  of  the 
priest's  kind  promises,  came  to  thank  him, — 
after  which  the  master  of  the  house  said :  — 

"  Now,  reverend  Sir,  much  as  we  re 
gret  to  leave  you  alone,  we  must  bid  you  fare 
well.  By  the  rule  of  our  village,  none  of  us  can 
stay  here  after  midnight.  We  beg,  kind  Sir, 
that  you  will  take  every  care  of  your  honorable 
body,  while  we  are  unable  to  attend  upon  you. 
And  if  you  happen  to  hear  or  see  anything 
strange  during  our  absence,  please  tell  us  of  the 
matter  when  we  return  in  the  morning." 

All  then  left  the  house,  except  the 
priest,  who  went  to  the  room  where  the  dead 
body  was  lying.  The  usual  offerings  had  been 
set  before  the  corpse ;  and  a  small  Buddhist 
lamp  —  tomyo  —  was  burning.  The  priest  re 
cited  the  service,  and  performed  the  funeral 
ceremonies,  —  after  which  he  entered  into  med 
itation.  So  meditating  he  remained  through 
several  silent  hours ;  and  there  was  no  sound  in 
68 


the  deserted  village.  But,  when  the  hush  of  the 
night  was  at  its  deepest,  there  noiselessly  en- 
tered  a  Shape,  vague  and  vast ;  and  in  the  same 
moment  Muso  found  himself  without  power  to 
move  or  speak.  He  saw  that  Shape  lift  the 
corpse,  as  with  hands,  and  devour  it,  more 
quickly  than  a  cat  devours  a  rat,  —  beginning 
at  the  head,  and  eating  everything :  the  hair 
and  the  bones  and  even  the  shroud.  And  the 
monstrous  Thing,  having  thus  consumed  the 
body,  turned  to  the  offerings,  and  ate  them 
also.  Then  it  went  away,  as  mysteriously  as  it 
had  come. 

When  the  villagers  returned  next 
morning,  they  found  the  priest  awaiting  them 
at  the  door  of  the  headman's  dwelling.  All  in 
turn  saluted  him ;  and  when  they  had  entered, 
and  looked  about  the  room,  no  one  expressed 
any  surprise  at  the  disappearance  of  the  dead 
body  and  the  offerings.  But  the  master  of  the 
house  said  to  Muso  :  — 

"  Reverend  Sir,  you  have  probably 
seen  unpleasant  things  during  the  night :  all  of 
us  were  anxious  about  you.  But  now  we  are 
very  happy  to  find  you  alive  and  unharmed. 
Gladly  we  would  have  stayed  with  you,  if  it  had 
been  possible.  But  the  law  of  our  village,  as  I 
told  you  last  evening,  obliges  us  to  quit  our 


houses  after  a  death  has  taken  place,  and  to 
leave  the  corpse  alone.  Whenever  this  law  has 
been  broken,  heretofore,  some  great  misfortune 
has  followed.  Whenever  it  is  obeyed,  we  find 
that  the  corpse  and  the  offerings  disappear  dur 
ing  our  absence.  Perhaps  you  have  seen  the 
cause/' 

Then  Muso  told  of  the  dim  and  awful 
Shape  that  had  entered  the  death-chamber  to 
devour  the  body  and  the  offerings.  No  person 
seemed  to  be  surprised  by  his  narration ;  and 
the  master  of  the  house  observed  :  — 

"What  you  have  told  us,  reverend 
Sir,  agrees  with  what  has  been  said  about  this 
matter  from  ancient  time." 

Muso  then  inquired  :  — 

"Does  not  the  priest  on  the  hill 
sometimes  perform  the  funeral-service  for  your 
dead  ? " 

"What  priest?"  the  young  man 
asked. 

"The  priest  who  yesterday  evening 
directed  me  to  this  village,"  answered  Mus5. 
"  I  called  at  his  anjitsu  on  the  hill  yonder.  He 
refused  me  lodging,  but  told  me  the  way  here." 

The  listeners  looked  at  each  other,  as 
in  astonishment ;  and,  after  a  moment  of  silence, 
the  master  of  the  house  said  :  — 

"  Reverend  Sir,  there  is  no  priest  and 
70 


there  is  no  anjitsu  on  the  hill.  For  the  time  of 
many  generations  there  has  not  been  any  resi 
dent-priest  in  this  neighborhood." 

Muso  said  nothing  more  on  the  sub 
ject  ;  for  it  was  evident  that  his  kind  hosts 
supposed  him  to  have  been  deluded  by  some 
goblin.  But  after  having  bidden  them  farewell, 
and  obtained  all  necessary  information  as  to  his 
road,  he  determined  to  look  again  for  the  her 
mitage  on  the  hill,  and  so  to  ascertain  whether 
he  had  really  been  deceived.  He  found  the 
dhjitsu  without  any  difficulty;  and,  this  time, 
its  aged  occupant  invited  him  to  enter.  When 
he  had  done  so,  the  hermit  humbly  bowed 
down  before  him,  exclaiming  :  —  "  Ah  !  I  am 
ashamed !  —  I  am  very  much  ashamed !  —  I  am 
exceedingly  ashamed !  " 

"  You  need  not  be  ashamed  for  hav 
ing  refused  me  shelter,"  said  Mus5.  "  You 
directed  me  to  the  village  yonder,  where  I  was 
very  kindly  treated ;  and  I  thank  you  for  that 
favor." 

"I  can  give  no  man  shelter,"  the 
recluse  made  answer  ;  —  "  and  it  is  not  for  the 
refusal  that  I  am  ashamed.  I  am  ashamed  only 
that  you  should  have  seen  me  in  my  real  shape, 
—  for  it  was  I  who  devoured  the  corpse  and 
the  offerings  last  night  before  your  eyes.  .  .  . 


Know,  reverend  Sir,  that  I  am  a  jikininki, l  — 
an  eater  of  human  flesh.  Have  pity  upon  me, 
and  suffer  me  to  confess  the  secret  fault  by 
which  I  became  reduced  to  this  condition. 

"  A  long,  long  time  ago,  I  was  a  priest 
in  this  desolate  region.  There  was  no  other 
priest  for  many  leagues  around.  So,  in  that 
time,  the  bodies  of  the  mountain-folk  who  died 
used  to  be  brought  here,  —  sometimes  from 
great  distances,  —  in  order  that  I  might  repeat 
over  them  the  holy  service.  But  I  repeated  the 
service  and  performed  the  rites  only  as  a  matter 
of  business  ;  —  I  thought  only  of  the  food  and 
the  clothes  that  my  sacred  profession  enabled 
me  to  gain.  And  because  of  this  selfish  impiety 
I  was  reborn,  immediately  after  my  death,  into 
the  state  of  a  jikininki '.  Since  then  I  have  been 
obliged  to  feed  upon  the  corpses  of  the  people 
who  die  in  this  district :  every  one  of  them  I 
must  devour  in  the  way  that  you  saw  last  night. 
.  .  .  Now,  reverend  Sir,  let  me  beseech  you  to 
perform  a  Se"gaki-service 2  for  me  :  help  me  by 

1  Literally,  a  man-eating  goblin.    The  Japanese  narrator 
gives  also  the  Sanscrit  term,  "  Rakshasa ;  "  but  this  word  is 
quite  as  vague  as  jikininki,  since  there  are  many  kinds  of 
Rakshasas.    Apparently  the  word  jikininki  signifies  here  one 
of  the  Baramon-Rasetsu-Gaki,  —  forming  the   twenty-sixth 
class  of  pretas  enumerated  in  the  old  Buddhist  books. 

2  A  Segaki -service  is  a  special  Buddhist  service  performed 
on  behalf  of  beings  supposed  to  have  entered  into  the  con- 
72 


your  prayers,  I  entreat  you,  so  that  I  may 
be  soon  able  to  escape  from  this  horrible  state 
of  existence."  .  .  . 

No  sooner  had  the  hermit  uttered 
this  petition  than  he  disappeared  ;  and  the  her 
mitage  also  disappeared  at  the  same  instant. 
And  Mus5  Kokushi  found  himself  kneeling 
alone  in  the  high  grass,  beside  an  ancient  and 
moss-grown  tomb,  of  the  form  called  go-rin- 
ishi*  which  seemed  to  be  the  tomb  of  a  priest. 

dition  of  gaki  (pretas),  or  hungry  spirits.  For  a  brief  account 
of  such  a  service,  see  my  Japanese  Miscellany. 

i  Literally,  "five-circle  [or  « five-zone  ']  stone."  A  funeral 
monument  consisting  of  five  parts  superimposed,  —  each  of 
a  different  form, — symbolizing  the  five  mystic  elements: 
Ether,  Air,  Fire,  Water,  Earth. 


73 


I 


ON  the  Akasaka  Road,  in  Tokyo, 
there  is  a  slope  called  Kii-no-kuni-zaka,  —  which 
means  the  Slope  of  the  Province  of  Kii.  I  do 
not  know  why  it  is  called  the  Slope  of  the  Pro 
vince  of  Kii.  On  one  side  of  this  slope  you  see 
an  ancient  moat,  deep  and  very  wide,  with  high 
green  banks  rising  up  to  some  place  of  gardens  ; 
—  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  road  extend 
the  long  and  lofty  walls  of  an  imperial  palace. 
Before  the  era  of  street-lamps  and  jinrikishas, 
this  neighborhood  was  very  lonesome  after 
dark ;  and  belated  pedestrians  would  go  miles 
out  of  their  way  rather  than  mount  the  Kii- 
no-kuni-zaka,  alone,  after  sunset. 

77 


ft 


All  because  of  a  Mujina  that  used  to 
walk  there. 

The  last  man  who  saw  the  Mujina  was 
an  old  merchant  of  the  Kyobashi  quarter,  who 
died  about  thirty  years  ago.  This  is  the  story, 
as  he  told  it :  — 

One  night,  at  a  late  hour,  he  was  hur 
rying  up  the  Kii-no-kuni-zaka,  when  he  per 
ceived  a  woman  crouching  by  the  moat,  all 
alone,  and  weeping  bitterly.  Fearing  that  she 
intended  to  drown  herself,  he  stopped  to  offer 
her  any  assistance  or  consolation  in  his  power. 
She  appeared  to  be  a  slight  and  graceful  per 
son,  handsomely  dressed  ;  and  her  hair  was  ar 
ranged  like  that  of  a  young  girl  of  good  family. 
"  O-jochu,"  '  he  exclaimed,  approaching  her, — 
"  O-jochu,  do  not  cry  like  that !  .  .  .  Tell  me 
what  the  trouble  is ;  and  if  there  be  any  way 
to  help  you,  I  shall  be  glad  to  help  you."  (He 
really  meant  what  he  said ;  for  he  was  a  very 
kind  man.)  But  she  continued  to  weep,  —  hid 
ing  her  face  from  him  with  one  of  her  long 
sleeves.  "  O-jochu,"  he  said  again,  as  gently 
as  he  could,  — "  please,  please  listen  to  me ! 
.  .  .  This  is  no  place  for  a  young  lady  at  night ! 

2  O-jochu  ("honorable  damsel"),  —  a  polite  form  of  ad 
dress  used  in  speaking  to  a  young  lady  whom  one  does  not 
know. 


Do  not  cry,  I  implore  you !  —  only  tell  me  how 
I  may  be  of  some  help  to  you ! "  Slowly  she 
rose  up,  but  turned  her  back  to  him,  and  con- 
tinued  to  moan  and  sob  behind  her  sleeve.  He 
laid  his  hand  lightly  upon  her  shoulder,  and 
pleaded  :  —  "  O-jochu  !  —  O-jochu  !  —  O-jochu  ! 
.  .  .  Listen  to  me,  just  for  one  little  moment ! 
.  .  .  O-jochu!  —  O-jochu  !"  .  .  .  Then  that 
O-jochu  turned  round,  and  dropped  her  sleeve, 
and  stroked  her  face  with  her  hand ;  —  and  the 
man  saw  that  she  had  no  eyes  or  nose  or  mouth, 

—  and  he  screamed  and  ran  away. 

Up  Kii-no-kuni-zaka  he  ran  and  ran ; 
and  all  was  black  and  empty  before  him.  On 
and  on  he  ran,  never  daring  to  look  back ;  and 
at  last  he  saw  a  lantern,  so  far  away  that  it 
looked  like  the  gleam  of  a  firefly  ;  and  he  made 
for  it.  It  proved  to  be  only  the  lantern  of  an 
itinerant  j^tf-seller,1  who  had  set  down  his 
stand  by  the  road-side ;  but  any  light  and  any 
human  companionship  was  good  after  that  ex 
perience  ;  and  he  flung  himself  down  at  the 
feet  of  the  J0&z-seller,  crying  out,  "  Aa  !  —  aa  !  ! 

—  aa!  //"... 

"  Kort 7  korf!"  roughly  exclaimed 
the  soba-man.  "  Here !  what  is  the  matter  with 
you  ?  Anybody  hurt  you  ?  " 

i  Soba  is  a  preparation  of  buckwheat,  somewhat  resembling 
vermicelli. 

79 


ft 


"  No  —  nobody  hurt  me,"  panted  the 
other,  —  "  only  .  .  .  Aa  !  —  oaf"  .  .  . 

"  —  Only  scared  you?"  queried  the 
peddler,  unsympathetically.  "  Robbers  ?  " 

"  Not  robbers, —  not  robbers,"  gasped 
the  terrified  man.  ..."  I  saw  ...  I  saw  a 
woman  —  by  the  moat ;  —  and  she  showed  me 
.  .  .  Aa  /  I  cannot  tell  you  what  she  showed 
me!"  ... 

"  ////  Was  it  anything  like  THIS  that 
she  showed  you  ? "  cried  the  soba-man,  strok 
ing  his  own  face  —  which  therewith  became 
like  unto  an  Egg.  .  .  .  And,  simultaneously, 
the  light  went  out. 


80 


NEARLY  five  hundred  years  ago  there 
was  a  samurai,  named  Isogai  He'fdazaemon 
Taketsura,  in  the  service  of  the  Lord  Kikuji,  of 
Kyushu.  This  Isogai  had  inherited,  from  many 
warlike  ancestors,  a  natural  aptitude  for  military 
exercises, and  extraordinary  strength.  While  yet 
a  boy  he  had  surpassed  his  teachers  in  the  art 
of  swordsmanship,  in  archery,  and  in  the  use 
of  the  spear,  and  had  displayed  all  the  ca 
pacities  of  a  daring  and  skillful  soldier.  After 
wards,  in  the  time  of  the  Eikyo  '  war,  he  so 
distinguished  himself  that  high  honors  were 
bestowed  upon  him.  But  when  the  house  of 

1  The  period  of  Eikyo  lasted  from  1429  to  1441. 

83 


Kikuji  came  to  ruin,  Isogai  found  himself  with 
out  a  master.  He  might  then  easily  have  ob 
tained  service  under  another  daimyo  ;  but  as  he 
had  never  sought  distinction  for  his  own  sake 
alone,  and  as  his  heart  remained  true  to  his 
former  lord,  he  preferred  to  give  up  the  world. 
So  he  cut  off  his  hair,  and  became  a  traveling 
priest,  —  taking  the  Buddhist  name  of  Kwairyo. 
But  always,  under  the  koromo  l  of  the 
priest,  Kwairyo  kept  warm  within  him  the  heart 
of  the  samurai.  As  in  other  years  he  had 
laughed  at  peril,  so  now  also  he  scorned  danger  ; 
and  in  all  weathers  and  all  seasons  he  journeyed 
to  preach  the  good  Law  in  places  where  no 
other  priest  would  have  dared  to  go.  For  that 
age  was  an  age  of  violence  and  disorder ;  and 
upon  the  highways  there  was  no  security  for 
the  solitary  traveler,  even  if  he  happened  to  be 
a  priest. 

In  the  course  of  his  first  long  journey, 
Kwairyo  had  occasion  to  visit  the  province  of 
Kai.  One  evening,  as  he  was  traveling  through 
the  mountains  of  that  province,  darkness  over 
took  him  in  a  very  lonesome  district,  leagues 
away  from  any  village.  So  he  resigned  himself 
to  pass  the  night  under  the  stars ;  and  having 
found  a  suitable  grassy  spot,  by  the  roadside, 

1  The  upper  robe  of  a  Buddhist  priest  is  thus  called. 
84 


he  lay  down  there,  and  prepared  to  sleep.  He  £fc 
had  always  welcomed  discomfort ;  and  even  a 
bare  rock  was  for  him  a  good  bed,  when  no- 
thing  better  could  be  found,  and  the  root  of  a 
pine-tree  an  excellent  pillow.  His  body  was 
iron  ;  and  he  never  troubled  himself  about  dews 
or  rain  or  frost  or  snow. 

Scarcely  had  he  lain  down  when  a 
man  came  along  the  road,  carrying  an  axe  and 
a  great  bundle  of  chopped  wood.  This  wood 
cutter  halted  on  seeing  Kwairyo  lying  down, 
and,  after  a  moment  of  silent  observation,  said 
to  him  in  a  tone  of  great  surprise  :  — 

"What  kind  of  a  man  can  you  be, 
good  Sir,  that  you  dare  to  lie  down  alone  in 
such  a  place  as  this  ?  .  .  .  There  are  haunters 
about  here,  —  many  of  them.  Are  you  not 
afraid  of  Hairy  Things  ?  " 

"My  friend,"  cheerfully  answered 
Kwairyo,  "  I  am  only  a  wandering  priest,  —  a 
'  Cloud-and- Water-Guest,'  as  folks  call  it :  Un- 
sui-no-ryokaku.  And  I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid 
of  Hairy  Things,  —  if  you  mean  goblin-foxes, 
or  goblin-badgers,  or  any  creatures  of  that  kind. 
As  for  lonesome  places,  I  like  them :  they  are 
suitable  for  meditation.  I  am  accustomed  to 
sleeping  in  the  open  air  :  and  I  have  learned 
never  to  be  anxious  about  my  life." 

"  You  must  be  indeed  a  brave  man, 


Sir  Priest,"  the  peasant  responded,  "to  lie  down 
here  !  This  place  has  a  bad  name,  —  a  very  bad 
name.  But,  as  the  proverb  has  it,  Kunshi  aya- 
yuki  ni  chikayorazu  [  *  The  superior  man  does 
not  needlessly  expose  himself  to  peril  '  ]  ;  and  I 
must  assure  you,  Sir,  that  it  is  very  dangerous 
to  sleep  here.  Therefore,  although  my  house 
is  only  a  wretched  thatched  hut,  let  me  beg 
of  you  to  come  home  with  me  at  once.  In  the 
way  of  food,  I  have  nothing  to  offer  you  ;  but 
there  is  a  roof  at  least,  and  you  can  sleep  undef 
it  without  risk." 

He  spoke  earnestly  ;  and  Kwairyo,  lik 
ing  the  kindly  tone  of  the  man,  accepted  this 
modest  offer.  The  woodcutter  guided  him  along 
a  narrow  path,  leading  up  from  the  main  road 
through  mountain-forest.  It  was  a  rough  and 
dangerous  path,  —  sometimes  skirting  preci 
pices,  —  sometimes  offering  nothing  but  a  net 
work  of  slippery  roots  for  the  foot  to  rest  upon, 
-  sometimes  winding  over  or  between  masses 
of  jagged  rock.  But  at  last  Kwairyo  found  him 
self  upon  a  cleared  space  at  the  top  of  a  hill, 
with  a  full  moon  shining  overhead  ;  and  he  saw 
before  him  a  small  thatched  cottage,  cheerfully 
lighted  from  within.  The  woodcutter  led  him 
to  a  shed  at  the  back  of  the  house,  whither 
water  had  been  conducted,  through  bamboo- 
pipes,  from  some  neighboring  stream  ;  and  the 
86 


two  men  washed  their  feet.  Beyond  the  shed 
was  a  vegetable  garden,  and  a  grove  of  cedars 
and  bamboos ;  and  beyond  the  trees  appeared 
the  glimmer  of  a  cascade,  pouring  from  some 
loftier  height,  and  swaying  in  the  moonshine 
like  a  long  white  robe. 

As  Kwairyo  entered  the  cottage  with 
his  guide,  he  perceived  four  persons  —  men 
and  women  —  warming  their  hands  at  a  little 
fire  kindled  in  the  ro I  of  the  principal  apartment. 
They  bowed  low  to  the  priest,  and  greeted  him 
in  the  most  respectful  manner.  Kwairyo  won 
dered  that  persons  so  poor,  and  dwelling  in 
such  a  solitude,  should  be  aware  of  the  polite 
forms  of  greeting.  "  These  are  good  people," 
he  thought  to  himself  ;  "  and  they  must  have 
been  taught  by  some  one  well  acquainted  with 
the  rules  of  propriety."  Then  turning  to  his 
host,  —  the  aruji>  or  house-master,  as  the  others 
called  him,  —  Kwairyo  said  :  - 

"  From  the  kindness  of  your  speech, 
and  from  the  very  polite  welcome  given  me  by 
your  household,  I  imagine  that  you  have  not 

1  A  sort  of  little  fireplace,  contrived  in  the  floor  of  a  room, 
is  thus  described.  The  ro  is  usually  a  square  shallow  cavity, 
lined  with  metal  and  half-filled  with  ashes,  in  which  charcoal 
is  lighted. 


always  been  a  woodcutter.  Perhaps  you  for- 
merly  belonged  to  one  of  the  upper  classes?  " 

Smiling,  the  woodcutter  answered :  — 

"  Sir,  you  are  not  mistaken.  Though 
now  living  as  you  find  me,  I  was  once  a  person 
of  some  distinction.  My  story  is  the  story  of  a 
ruined  life — ruined  by  my  own  fault.  I  used 
to  be  in  the  service  of  a  daimyo  ;  and  my  rank 
in  that  service  was  not  inconsiderable.  But  I 
loved  women  and  wine  too  well ;  and  under  the 
influence  of  passion  I  acted  wickedly.  My  self 
ishness  brought  about  the  ruin  of  our  house, 
and  caused  the  death  of  many  persons.  Retri 
bution  followed  me ;  and  I  long  remained  a 
fugitive  in  the  land.  Now  I  often  pray  that  I 
may  be  able  to  make  some  atonement  for  the 
evil  which  I  did,  and  to  reestablish  the  ancestral 
home.  But  I  fear  that  I  shall  never  find  any 
way  of  so  doing.  Nevertheless,  I  try  to  over 
come  the  karma  of  my  errors  by  sincere  repen 
tance,  and  by  helping,  as  far  as  I  can,  those 
who  are  unfortunate." 

Kwairyo  was  pleased  by  this  announce 
ment  of  good  resolve ;  and  he  said  to  the 
aniji :  — 

"My  friend,  I  have  had  occasion  to 
observe  that  men,  prone  to  folly  in  their  youth, 
may  in  after  years  become  very  earnest  in  right 
living.  In  the  holy  sutras  it  is  written  that  those 
88 


strongest  in  wrong-doing  can  become,  by  power  t^L* 
of  good  resolve,  the  strongest  in  right-doing.  I  f  Jt 
do  not  doubt  that  you  have  a  good  heart ;  and 
I  hope  that  better  fortune  will  come  to  you. 
To-night  I  shall  recite  the  sutras  for  your  sake, 
and  pray  that  you  may  obtain  the  force  to  over 
come  the  karma  of  any  past  errors." 

With  these  assurances,  Kwairyo  bade 
the  aruji  good-night ;  and  his  host  showed  him 
to  a  very  small  side-room,  where  a  bed  had  been 
made  ready.  Then  all  went  to  sleep  except  the 
priest,  who  began  to  read  the  sutras  by  the 
light  of  a  paper  lantern.  Until  a  late  hour  he 
continued  to  read  and  pray  :  then  he  opened 
a  window  in  his  little  sleeping-room,  to  take  a 
last  look  at  the  landscape  before  lying  down. 
The  night  was  beautiful :  there  was  no  cloud  in 
the  sky ;  there  was  no  wind  ;  and  the  strong 
moonlight  threw  down  sharp  black  shadows 
of  foliage,  and  glittered  on  the  dews  of  the 
garden.  Shrillings  of  crickets  and  bell-insects 
made  a  musical  tumult ;  and  the  sound  of  the 
neighboring  cascade  deepened  with  the  night. 
Kwairyo  felt  thirsty  as  he  listened  to  the  noise 
of  the  water ;  and,  remembering  the  bamboo 
aqueduct  at  the  rear  of  the  house,  he  thought 
that  he  could  go  there  and  get  a  drink  without 
disturbing  the  sleeping  household.  Very  gently 
he  pushed  apart  the  sliding-screens  that  sepa- 

80 


rated  his  room  from  the  main  apartment ;  and 
he  saw,  by  the  light  of  the  lantern,  five  recum 
bent  bodies  —  without  heads  ! 

For  one  instant  he  stood  bewildered, 
—  imagining  a  crime.  But  in  another  moment 
he  perceived  that  there  was  no  blood,  and  that 
the  headless  necks  did  not  look  as  if  they  had 
been  cut.  Then  he  thought  to  himself  :- 
"  Either  this  is  an  illusion  made  by  goblins,  or 
I  have  been  lured  into  the  dwelling  of  a  Rokuro- 
Kubi.  ...  In  the  book  Soshinki  it  is  written 
that  if  one  find  the  body  of  a  Rokuro-Kubi  with 
out  its  head,  and  remove  the  body  to  another 
place,  the  head  will  never  be  able  to  join  itself 
again  to  the  neck.  And  the  book  further  says 
that  when  the  head  comes  back  and  finds  that 
its  body  has  been  moved,  it  will  strike  itself 
upon  the  floor  three  times,  —  bounding  like  a 
ball,  —  and  will  pant  as  in  great  fear,  and  pre 
sently  die.  Now,  if  these  be  Rokuro-Kubi,  they 
mean  me  no  good  ;  —  so  I  shall  be  justified  in 
following  the  instructions  of  the  book."  .  .  . 

He  seized  the  body  of  the  aruji  by 
the  feet,  pulled  it  to  the  window,  and  pushed  it 
out.  Then  he  went  to  the  back-door,  which  he 
found  barred ;  and  he  surmised  that  the  heads 
had  made  their  exit  through  the  smoke-hole  in 
the  roof,  which  had  been  left  open.  Gently  un 
barring  the  door,  he  made  his  way  to  the  gar- 
90 


den,  and  proceeded  with  all  possible  caution  to 
the  grove  beyond  it.  He  heard  voices  talking 
in  the  grove  ;  and  he  went  in  the  direction  of 
the  voices,  —  stealing  from  shadow  to  shadow, 
until  he  reached  a  good  hiding-place.  Then, 
from  behind  a  trunk,  he  caught  sight  of  the 
heads,  —  all  five  of  them,  —  flitting  about,  and 
chatting  as  they  flitted.  They  were  eating 
worms  and  insects  which  they  found  on  the 
ground  or  among  the  trees.  Presently  the  head 
of  the  aruji  stopped  eating  and  said  :  — 

"  Ah,  that  traveling  priest  who  came 
to-night !  —  how  fat  all  his  body  is  !  When  we 
shall  have  eaten  him,  our  bellies  will  be  well 
filled.  ...  I  was  foolish  to  talk  to  him  as  I  did  ; 
—  it  only  set  him  to  reciting  the  sutras  on  behalf 
of  my  soul !  To  go  near  him  while  he  is  reciting 
would  be  difficult ;  and  we  cannot  touch  him  so 
long  as  he  is  praying.  But  as  it  is  now  nearly 
morning,  perhaps  he  has  gone  to  sleep.  .  .  . 
Some  one  of  you  go  to  the  house  and  see  what 
the  fellow  is  doing." 

Another  head  —  the  head  of  a  young 
woman  —  immediately  rose  up  and  flitted  to  the 
house,  lightly  as  a  bat.  After  a  few  minutes 
it  came  back,  and  cried  out  huskily,  in  a  tone  of 
great  alarm  :  — 

"  That  traveling  priest  is  not  in  the 
house  ;  — he  is  gone  !  But  that  is  not  the  worst 


of  the  matter.  He  has  taken  the  body  of  our 
aruji ;  and  I  do  not  know  where  he  has  put  it." 

At  this  announcement  the  head  of 
the  aruji  —  distinctly  visible  in  the  moonlight 
—  assumed  a  frightful  aspect :  its  eyes  opened 
monstrously ;  its  hair  stood  up  bristling ;  and 
its  teeth  gnashed.  Then  a  cry  burst  from  its 
lips  ;  and  —  weeping  tears  of  rage  —  it  ex 
claimed  :  — 

"  Since  my  body  has  been  moved,  to 
rejoin  it  is  not  possible !  Then  I  must  die  ! 
.  .  .  And  all  through  the  work  of  that  priest ! 
Before  I  die  I  will  get  at  that  priest !  —  I  will 
tear  him  !  —  I  will  devour  him  !  .  .  .And  there 
he  is  —  behind  that  tree  !  —  hiding  behind 
that  tree!  See  him!  —  the  fat  coward  !"  .  .  . 

In  the  same  moment  the  head  of  the 
aruji,  followed  by  the  other  four  heads,  sprang 
at  Kwairyo.  But  the  strong  priest  had  already 
armed  himself  by  plucking  up  a  young  tree ; 
and  with  that  tree  he  struck  the  heads  as  they 
came,  —  knocking  them  from  him  with  tremen 
dous  blows.  Four  of  them  fled  away.  But  the 
head  of  the  aruji,  though  battered  again  and 
again,  desperately  continued  to  bound  at  the 
priest,  and  at  last  caught  him  by  the  left  sleeve 
of  his  robe.  Kwairyo,  however,  as  quickly 
gripped  the  head  by  its  topknot,  and  repeatedly 
struck  it.  It  did  not  release  its  hold  ;  but  it 
92 


uttered  a  long  moan,  and  thereafter  ceased  to      tfe 
struggle.    It  was  dead.    But  its  teeth  still  held 
the  sleeve ;    and,   for  all   his    great    strength, 
Kwairyo  could  not  force  open  the  jaws. 

With  the  head  still  hanging  to  his 
sleeve  he  went  back  to  the  house,  and  there 
caught  sight  of  the  other  four  Rokuro-Kubi 
squatting  together,  with  their  bruised  and  bleed 
ing  heads  reunited  to  their  bodies.  But  when 
they  perceived  him  at  the  back-door  all  screamed, 
"  The  priest !  the  priest !  "  —  and  fled,  through 
the  other  doorway,  out  into  the  woods. 

Eastward  the  sky  was  brightening; 
day  was  about  to  dawn;  and  Kwairyo  knew 
that  the  power  of  the  goblins  was  limited  to 
the  hours  of  darkness.  He  looked  at  the  head 
clinging  to  his  sleeve,  —  its  face  all  fouled  with 
blood  and  foam  and  clay  ;  and  he  laughed  aloud 
as  he  thought  to  himself  :  "  What  a  miyagt !  ' 
—  the  head  of  a  goblin  ! "  After  which  he 
gathered  together  his  few  belongings,  and 
leisurely  descended  the  mountain  to  continue 
his  journey. 

Right  on  he  journeyed,  until  he  came 
to  Suwa  in  Shinano  ;  and  into  the  main  street  of 

i  A  present  made  to  friends  or  to  the  household  on  re 
turning  from  a  journey  is  thus  called.  Ordinarily,  of  course, 
the  miyagt  consists  of  something  produced  in  the  locality  to 
which  the  journey  has  been  made :  this  is  the  point  of 
Kwairyo's  jest. 

93 


Suwa  he  solemnly  strode,  with  the  head  dan- 
gling  at  his  elbow.  Then  women  fainted,  and 
children  screamed  and  ran  away  ;  and  there  was 
a  great  crowding  and  clamoring  until  the  toritt 
(as  the  police  of  those  days  were  called)  seized 
the  priest,  and  took  him  to  jail.  For  they  sup 
posed  the  head  to  be  the  head  of  a  murdered 
man  who,  in  the  moment  of  being  killed,  had 
caught  the  murderer's  sleeve  in  his  teeth.  As 
for  Kwairyd,  he  only  smiled  and  said  nothing 
when  they  questioned  him.  So,  after  having 
passed  a  night  in  prison,  he  was  brought  before 
the  magistrates  of  the  district.  Then  he  was 
ordered  to  explain  how  he,  a  priest,  had  been 
found  with  the  head  of  a  man  fastened  to  his 
sleeve,  and  why  he  had  dared  thus  shamelessly 
to  parade  his  crime  in  the  sight  of  the  people. 

Kwairyo  laughed  long  and  loudly  at 
these  questions  ;  and  then  he  said  :  — 

"  Sirs,  I  did  not  fasten  the  head  to 
my  sleeve :  it  fastened  itself  there  —  much 
against  my  will.  And  I  have  not  committed 
any  crime.  For  this  is  not  the  head  of  a  man ; 
it  is  the  head  of  a  goblin  ;  —  andj  if  I  caused 
the  death  of  the  goblin,  I  did  not  do  so  by 
any  shedding  of  blood,  but  simply  by  taking 
the  precautions  necessary  to  assure  my  own 
safety."  .  .  .  And  he  proceeded  to  relate  the 
whole  of  the  adventure,  —  bursting  into  another 

94 


hearty  laugh  as  he  told  of  his  encounter  with  the 
five  heads. 

But  the  magistrates  did  not  laugh. 
They  judged  him  to  be  a  hardened  criminal, 
and  his  story  an  insult  to  their  intelligence. 
Therefore,  without  further  questioning,  they 
decided  to  order  his  immediate  execution,  —  all 
of  them  except  one,  a  very  old  man.  This  aged 
officer  had  made  no  remark  during  the  trial ; 
but,  after  having  heard  the  opinion  of  his  col 
leagues,  he  rose  up,  and  said  :  — 

"  Let  us  first  examine  the  head  care 
fully  ;  for  this,  I  think,  has  not  yet  been  done. 
If  the  priest  has  spoken  truth,  the  head  itself 
should  bear  witness  for  him.  .  .  Bring  the  head 
here  !  " 

So  the  head,  still  holding  in  its  teeth 
the  koromo  that  had  been  stripped  from  Kwai- 
ryo's  shoulders,  was  put  before  the  judges.  ,The 
old  man  turned  it  round  and  round,  carefully 
examined  it,  and  discovered,  on  the  nape  of  its 
neck,  several  strange  red  characters.  He  called 
the  attention  of  his  colleagues  to  these,  and 
also  bade  them  observe  that  the  edges  of  the 
neck  nowhere  presented  the  appearance  of  hav 
ing  been  cut  by  any  weapon.  On  the  contrary, 
the  line  of  severance  was  smooth  as  the  line 
at  which  a  falling  leaf  detaches  itself  from  the 
stem.  .  .  Then  said  the  elder  :  — 

95 


"  I  am  quite  sure  that  the  priest  told 
us  nothing  but  the  truth.  This  is  the  head  of  a 
Rokuro-Kubi.  In  the  book  Nan-ho-'i-butsu-shi 
it  is  written  that  certain  red  characters  can 
always  be  found  upon  the  nape  of  the  neck  of 
a  real  Rokuro-Kubi.  There  are  the  characters  : 
you  can  see  for  yourselves  that  they  have  not 
been  painted.  Moreover,  it  is  well  known  that 
such  goblins  have  been  dwelling  in  the  moun 
tains  of  the  province  of  Kai  from  very  ancient 
time.  .  .  .  But  you,  Sir,"  he  exclaimed,  turning 
to  Kwairyo,  —  "  what  sort  of  sturdy  priest  may 
you  be?  Certainly  you  have  given  proof  of  a 
courage  that  few  priests  possess  ;  and  you  have 
the  air  of  a  soldier  rather  than  of  a  priest.  Per 
haps  you  once  belonged  to  the  samurai-class  ?  " 

"You  have  guessed  rightly,  Sir," 
Kwairyo  responded.  "  Before  becoming  a  priest, 
I  long  followed  the  profession  of  arms ;  and  in 
those  days  I  never  feared  man  or  devil.  My 
name  then  was  Isogai  He"i'dazaemon  Taketsura, 
of  Kyushu  :  there  may  be  some  among  you 
who  remember  it." 

At  the  utterance  of  that  name,  a  mur 
mur  of  admiration  filled  the  court-room ;  for 
there  were  many  present  who  remembered  it. 
And  Kwairyo  immediately  found  himself  among 
friends  instead  of  judges,  —  friends  anxious  to 
prove  their  admiration  by  fraternal  kindness. 


With  honor  they  escorted  him  to  the  residence 
of  the  daimyo,  who  welcomed  him,  and  feasted 
him,  and  made  him  a  handsome  present  before 
allowing  him  to  depart.  When  Kwairyo  left 
Suwa,  he  was  as  happy  as  any  priest  is  per 
mitted  to  be  in  this  transitory  world.  As  for 
the  head,  he  took  it  with  him,  —  jocosely  insist 
ing  that  he  intended  it  for  a  miyagt. 

And  now  it  only  remains  to  tell  what 
became  of  the  head. 

A  day  or  two  after  leaving  Suwa, 
Kwairyo  met  with  a  robber,  who  stopped  him 
in  a  lonesome  place,  and  bade  him  strip. 
Kwairyo  at  once  removed  his  koromo,  and  of 
fered  it  to  the  robber,  who  then  first  perceived 
what  was  hanging  to  the  sleeve.  Though  brave, 
the  highwayman  was  startled :  he  dropped  the 
garment,  and  sprang  back.  Then  he  cried  out : 
—  "  You !  —  what  kind  of  a  priest  are  you  ? 
Why,  you  are  a  worse  man  than  I  am !  It  is 
true  that  I  have  killed  people  ;  but  I  never 
walked  about  with  anybody's  head  fastened  to 
my  sleeve.  .  .  .  Well,  Sir  priest,  I  suppose  we 
are  of  the  same  calling ;  and  I  must  say  that 
I  admire  you  I  .  .  .  Now  that  head  would  be 
of  use  to  me  :  I  could  frighten  people  with  it. 
Will  you  sell  it  ?  You  can  have  my  robe  in  ex- 

97 


change  for  your  koromo ;  and  I  will  give  you 
five  ryo  for  the  head." 

Kwairyo  answered  :  — 

"  I  shall  let  you  have  the  head  and 
the  robe  if  you  insist ;  but  I  must  tell  you  that 
this  is  not  the  head  of  a  man.  It  is  a  goblin's 
head.  So,  if  you  buy  it,  and  have  any  trouble 
in  consequence,  please  to  remember  that  you 
were  not  deceived  by  me." 

"  What  a  nice  priest  you  are  !  "  ex 
claimed  the  robber.  "  You  kill  men,  and  jest 
about  it !  ...  But  I  am  really  in  earnest. 
Here  is  my  robe ;  and  here  is  the  money  ;  — 
and  let  me  have  the  head.  .  .  .  What  is  the 
use  of  joking  ?  " 

"  Take  the  thing,"  said  Kwairyo.  "  I 
was  not  joking.  The  only  joke  —  if  there  be 
any  joke  at  all  —  is  that  you  are  fool  enough 
to  pay  good  money  for  a  goblin's  head."  And 
Kwairyo,  loudly  laughing,  went  upon  his  way. 

Thus  the  robber  got  the  head  and  the 
koromo ;  and  for  some  time  he  played  goblin- 
priest  upon  the  highways.  But,  reaching  the 
neighborhood  of  Suwa,  he  there  learned  the 
real  history  of  the  head ;  and  he  then  became 
afraid  that  the  spirit  of  the  Rokuro-Kubi  might 
give  him  trouble.  So  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
take  back  the  head  to  the  place  from  which  it 
98 


had  come,  and  to  bury  it  with  its  body.  He  r* 
found  his  way  to  the  lonely  cottage  in  the 
mountains  of  Kai ;  but  nobody  was  there,  and 
he  could  not  discover  the  body.  Therefore  he 
buried  the  head  by  itself,  in  the  grove  behind 
the  cottage ;  and  he  had  a  tombstone  set  up 
over  the  grave  ;  and  he  caused  a  Segaki-service 
to  be  performed  on  behalf  of  the  spirit  of  the 
Rokuro-Kubi.  And  that  tombstone  —  known 
as  the  Tombstone  of  the  Rokuro-Kubi  —  may 
be  seen  (at  least  so  the  Japanese  story-teller 
declares)  even  unto  this  day. 


99 


A  LONG  time  ago,  in  the  province  of 
Tamba,  there  lived  a  rich  merchant  named  Ina- 
muraya  Gensuke.  He  had  a  daughter  called 
O-Sono.  As  she  was  very  clever  and  pretty,  he 
thought  it  would  be  a  pity  to  let  her  grow  up 
with  only  such  teaching  as  the  country-teachers 
could  give  her :  so  he  sent  her,  in  care  of  some 
trusty  attendants,  to  Kyoto,  that  she  might  be 
trained  in  the  polite  accomplishments  taught  to 
the  ladies  of  the  capital.  After  she  had  thus 
been  educated,  she  was  married  to  a  friend  of 
her  father's  family  —  a  merchant  named  Na- 
garaya  ;  —  and  she  lived  happily  with  him  for 
nearly  four  years.  They  had  one  child,  —  a 

103 


£%     boy.    But  O-Sono  fell  ill  and  died,  in  the  fourth 

^      year  after  her  marriage. 

On  the  night  after  the  funeral  of  O- 
Sono,  her  little  son  said  that  his  mamma  had 
come  back,  and  was  in  the  room  upstairs.  She 
had  smiled  at  him,  but  would  not  talk  to  him  : 
so  he  became  afraid,  and  ran  away.  Then  some 
of  the  family  went  upstairs  to  the  room  which 
had  been  O-Sono's ;  and  they  were  startled 
to  see,  by  the  light  of  a  small  lamp  which 
had  been  kindled  before  a  shrine  in  that  room, 
the  figure  of  the  dead  mother.  She  appeared 
as  if  standing  in  front  of  a  tansu,  or  chest  of 
drawers,  that  still  contained  her  ornaments  and 
her  wearing-apparel.  Her  head  and  shoulders 
could  be  very  distinctly  seen ;  but  from  the 
waist  downwards  the  figure  thinned  into  invisi 
bility  ;  —  it  was  like  an  imperfect  reflection  of 
her,  and  transparent  as  a  shadow  on  water. 

Then  the  folk  were  afraid,  and  left 
the  room.  Below  they  consulted  together  ;  and 
the  mother  of  O-Sono's  husband  said :  "  A 
woman  is  fond  of  her  small  things  ;  and  O-Sono 
was  much  attached  to  her  belongings.  Perhaps 
she  has  come  back  to  look  at  them.  Many  dead 
persons  will  do  that,  —  unless  the  things  be 
given  to  the  parish-temple.  If  we  present  O- 
Sono's  robes  and  girdles  to  the  temple,  her 
spirit  will  probably  find  rest." 
104 


It  was  agreed  that  this  should  be  done  C>t» 
as  soon  as  possible.  So  on  the  following  morn 
ing  the  drawers  were  emptied ;  and  all  of  O- 
Sono's  ornaments  and  dresses  were  taken  to  the 
temple.  But  she  came  back  the  next  night,  and 
looked  at  the  tansu  as  before.  And  she  came 
back  also  on  the  night  following,  and  the  night 
after  that,  and  every  night ;  —  and  the  house 
became  a  house  of  fear. 

The  mother  of  O-Sono's  husband  then 
went  to  the  parish-temple,  and  told  the  chief 
priest  all  that  had  happened,  and  asked  for 
ghostly  counsel.  The  temple  was  a  Zen  temple  ; 
and  the  head-priest  was  a  learned  old  man, 
known  as  Daigen  Osho.  He  said  :  "  There  must 
be  something  about  which  she  is  anxious,  in  or 
near  that  tansu''  •  — "  But  we  emptied  all  the 
drawers,"  replied  the  old  woman  ;  —  "  there  is 
nothing  in  the  tansu"  —  "  Well,"  said  Daigen 
Osho,  "  to-night  I  shall  go  to  your  house,  and 
keep  watch  in  that  room,  and  see  what  can  be 
done.  You  must  give  orders  that  no  person 
shall  enter  the  room  while  I  am  watching,  un 
less  I  call." 

After  sundown,  Daigen  Osh5  went  to 
the  house,  and  found  the  room  made  ready  for 
him.  He  remained  there  alone,  reading  the 

105 


sutras ;  and  nothing  appeared  until  after  the 
Hour  of  the  Rat. '  Then  the  figure  of  O-Sono 
suddenly  outlined  itself  in  front  of  the  tanm. 
Her  face  had  a  wistful  look ;  and  she  kept  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  tansu. 

The  priest  uttered  the  holy  formula 
prescribed  in  such  cases,  and  then,  addressing 
the  figure  by  the  kaimyo 2  of  O-Sono,  said  :  — 
"  I  have  come  here  in  order  to  help  you.  Per 
haps  in  that  tansu  there  is  something  about 
which  you  have  reason  to  feel  anxious.  Shall  I 
try  to  find  it  for  you  ?  "  The  shadow  appeared 
to  give  assent  by  a  slight  motion  of  the  head ; 
and  the  priest,  rising,  opened  the  top  drawer. 
It  was  empty.  Successively  he  opened  the 
second,  the  third,  and  the  fourth  drawer  ;  —  he 
searched  carefully  behind  them  and  beneath 
them  ;  —  he  carefully  examined  the  interior  of 
the  chest.  He  found  nothing.  But  the  figure 
remained  gazing  as  wistfully  as  before.  "  What 
can  she  want  ?  "  thought  the  priest.  Suddenly 


1  The  Hour  of  the  Rat  (Nt-no-Koku},  according  to  the 
old  Japanese  method  of  reckoning  time,  was  the  first  hour. 
It  corresponded  to  the  time  between  our  midnight  and  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning ;  for  the  ancient  Japanese  hours  were 
each  equal  to  two  modern  hours. 

2  Kaimyo,  the   posthumous    Buddhist  name,  or   religious 
name,  given  to  the  dead.     Strictly  speaking,  the  meaning  of 
the  word  is  sila-name.     (See  my  paper  entitled  "  The  Litera 
ture  of  the  Dead  "  in  Exotics  and  Retrospectives.} 

106 


it  occurred  to  him  that  there  might  be  some 
thing  hidden  under  the  paper  with  which  the 
drawers  were  lined.  He  removed  the  lining  of 
the  first  drawer  :  —  nothing !  He  removed  the 
lining  of  the  second  and  third  drawers  :  —  still 
nothing.  But  under  the  lining  of  the  lowermost 
drawer  he  found  —  a  letter.  "  Is  this  the  thing 
about  which  you  have  been  troubled  ? "  he  asked. 
The  shadow  of  the  woman  turned  toward  him, 
—  her  faint  gaze  fixed  upon  the  letter.  "  Shall 
I  burn  it  for  you  ? "  he  asked.  She  bowed  be 
fore  him.  "It  shall  be  burned  in  the  temple 
this  very  morning,"  he  promised ;  —  "  and  no  one 
shall  read  it,  except  myself."  The  figure  smiled 
and  vanished. 

Dawn  was  breaking  as  the  priest  de 
scended  the  stairs,  to  find  the  family  waiting 
anxiously  below.  "  Do  not  be  anxious,"  he  said 
to  them:  "she  will  not  appear  again."  And 
she  never  did. 

The  letter  was  burned.  It  was  a  love- 
letter  written  to  O-Sono  in  the  time  of  her 
studies  at  Kyoto.  But  the  priest  alone  knew 
what  was  in  it ;  and  the  secret  died  with  him. 


107 


ruKJ-OATAJA 


ruKj'0/fNA 


IN  a  village  of  Musashi  Province,  there 
lived  two  woodcutters  :  Mosaku  and  Minokichi. 
At  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking,  Mosaku 
was  an  old  man  ;  and  Minokichi,  his  apprentice, 
was  a  lad  of  eighteen  years.  Every  day  they 
went  together  to  a  forest  situated  about  five 
miles  from  their  village.  On  the  way  to  that 
forest  there  is  a  wide  river  to  cross  ;  and  there 
is  a  ferry-boat.  Several  times  a  bridge  was  built 
where  the  ferry  is ;  but  the  bridge  was  each 
time  carried  away  by  a  flood.  No  common 
bridge  can  resist  the  current  there  when  the 
river  rises. 

Mosaku  and  Minokichi  were  on  their 

in 


way  home,  one  very  cold  evening,  when  a  great 
snowstorm  overtook  them.  They  reached  the 
ferry  ;  and  they  found  that  the  boatman  had 
gone  away,  leaving  his  boat  on  the  other  side  of 
the  river.  It  was  no  day  for  swimming ;  and 
the  woodcutters  took  shelter  in  the  ferryman's 
hut,  —  thinking  themselves  lucky  to  find  any 
shelter  at  all.  There  was  no  brazier  in  the  hut, 
nor  any  place  in  which  to  make  a  fire :  it  was 
only  a  two-mat  *  hut,  with  a  single  door,  but  no 
window.  Mosaku  and  Minokichi  fastened  the 
door,  and  lay  down  to  rest,  with  their  straw 
rain-coats  over  them.  At  first  they  did  not  feel 
very  cold  ;  and  they  thought  that  the  storm 
would  soon  be  over. 

The  old  man  almost  immediately  fell 
asleep  ;  but  the  boy,  Minokichi,  lay  awake  a 
long  time,  listening  to  the  awful  wind,  and  the 
continual  slashing  of  the  snow  against  the  door. 
The  river  was  roaring ;  and  the  hut  swayed  and 
creaked  like  a  junk  at  sea.  It  was  a  terrible 
storm  ;  and  the  air  was  every  moment  becoming 
colder  ;  and  Minokichi  shivered  under  his  rain 
coat.  But  at  last,  in  spite  of  the  cold,  he  too 
fell  asleep. 

He  was  awakened  by  a  showering  of 

snow  in  his  face.    The  door  of  the  hut  had  been 

t 

1  That  is  to  say,  with  a  floor-surface  of  about  six  feet 
square. 
112 


forced  open ;  and,  by  the  snow-light  (yuki- 
akari),  he  saw  a  woman  in  the  room,  —  a  wo 
man  all  in  white.  She  was  bending  above  Mo-  <^ 
saku,  and  blowing  her  breath  upon  him  ;  —  and 
her  breath  was  like  a  bright  white  smoke.  Al 
most  in  the  same  moment  she  turned  to  Mino- 
kichi,  and  stooped  over  him.  He  tried  to  cry 
out,  but  found  that  he  could  not  utter  any 
sound.  The  white  woman  bent  down  over  him, 
lower  and  lower,  until  her  face  almost  touched 
him ;  and  he  saw  that  she  was  very  beautiful, 
—  though  her  eyes  made  him  afraid.  For  a 
little  time  she  continued  to  look  at  him  ;  —  then 
she  smiled,  and  she  whispered  :  —  "I  intended 
to  treat  you  like  the  other  man.  But  I  cannot 
help  feeling  some  pity  for  you,  —  because  you 
are  so  young.  .  .  .  You  are  a  pretty  boy,  Mino- 
kichi ;  and  I  will  not  hurt  you  now.  But,  if  you 
ever  tell  anybody  —  even  your  own  mother  — 
about  what  you  have  seen  this  night,  I  shall 
know  it ;  and  then  I  will  kill  you.  .  .  .  Re 
member  what  I  say  !  " 

With  these  words,  she  turned  from 
him,  and  passed  through  the  doorway.  Then  he 
found  himself  able  to  move  ;  and  he  sprang  up, 
and  looked  out.  But  the  woman  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen  ;  and  the  snow  was  driving  furiously 
into  the  hut.  Minokichi  closed  the  door,  and 
secured  it  by  fixing  several  billets  of  wood 


against  it.  He  wondered  if  the  wind  had  blown 
it  open  ;  —  he  thought  that  he  might  have  been 
only  dreaming,  and  might  have  mistaken  the 
gleam  of  the  snow-light  in  the  doorway  for  the 
figure  of  a  white  woman  :  but  he  could  not  be 
sure.  He  called  to  Mosaku,  and  was  frightened 
because  the  old  man  did  not  answer.  He  put 
out  his  hand  in  the  dark,  and  touched  Mosaku 's 
face,  and  found  that  it  was  ice !  Mosaku  was 
stark  and  dead.  .  .  . 

By  dawn  the  storm  was  over ;  and 
when  the  ferryman  returned  to  his  station,  a 
little  after  sunrise,  he  found  Minokichi  lying 
senseless  beside  the  frozen  body  of  Mosaku. 
Minokichi  was  promptly  cared  for,  and  soon 
came  to  himself ;  but  he  remained  a  long  time 
ill  from  the  effects  of  the  cold  of  that  terrible 
night.  He  had  been  greatly  frightened  also  by 
the  old  man's  death  ;  but  he  said  nothing  about 
the  vision  of  the  woman  in  white.  As  soon  as 
he  got  well  again,  he  returned  to  his  calling,  — 
going  alone  every  morning  to  the  forest,  and 
coming  back  at  nightfall  with  his  bundles  of 
wood,  which  his  mother  helped  him  to  sell. 

One  evening,  in  the  winter  of  the 
following  year,  as  he  was  on  his  way  home,  he 
overtook  a  girl  who  happened  to  be  traveling 
114 


by  the  same  road.  She  was  a  tall,  slim  girl,  very 
good-looking;  and  she  answered  Minokichi's 
greeting  in  a  voice  as  pleasant  to  the  ear  as  the  <£*)* 
voice  of  a  song-bird.  Then  he  walked  beside  CtxC 
her  ;  and  they  began  to  talk.  The  girl  said  that 
her  name  was  O-Yuki ; '  that  she  had  lately  lost 
both  of  her  parents  ;  and  that  she  was  going  to 
Yedo,  where  she  happened  to  have  some  poor 
relations,  who  might  help  her  to  find  a  situation 
as  servant.  Minokichi  soon  felt  charmed  by 
this  strange  girl ;  and  the  more  that  he  looked 
at  her,  the  handsomer  she  appeared  to  be.  He 
asked  her  whether  she  was  yet  betrothed  ;  and 
she  answered,  laughingly,  that  she  was  free. 
Then,  in  her  turn,  she  asked  Minokichi  whether 
he  was  married,  or  pledged  to  marry ;  and  he 
told  her  that,  although  he  had  only  a  widowed 
mother  to  support,  the  question  of  an  "  honor 
able  daughter-in-law  "  had  not  yet  been  consid 
ered,  as  he  was  very  young.  .  .  .  After  these 
confidences,  they  walked  on  for  a  long  while 
without  speaking ;  but,  as  the  proverb  declares, 
Ki  ga  artba,  m£  mo  kuchi  hodo  ni  mono  wo  iu : 
"  When  the  wish  is  there,  the  eyes  can  say  as 
much  as  the  mouth."  By  the  time  they  reached 
the  village,  they  had  become  very  much  pleased 

1  This  name,  signifying  "  Snow,"  is  not  uncommon.  On 
the  subject  of  Japanese  female  names,  see  my  paper  in  the 
volume  entitled  Shadowing*. 


with  each  other ;  and  then  Minokichi  asked 
O-Yuki  to  rest  awhile  at  his  house.  After  some 
shy  hesitation,  she  went  there  with  him  ;  and 
his  mother  made  her  welcome,  and  prepared  a 
warm  meal  for  her.  O-Yuki  behaved  so  nicely 
that  Minokichi's  mother  took  a  sudden  fancy  to 
her,  and  persuaded  her  to  delay  her  journey  to 
Yedo.  And  the  natural  end  of  the  matter  was 
that  Yuki  never  went  to  Yedo  at  all.  She  re 
mained  in  the  house,  as  an  "  honorable  daughter- 
in-law." 

O-Yuki  proved  a  very  good  daughter- 
in-law.  When  Minokichi's  mother  came  to  die, 
—  some  five  years  later,  —  her  last  words  were 
words  of  affection  and  praise  for  the  wife  of 
her  son.  And  O-Yuki  bore  Minokichi  ten  chil 
dren,  boys  and  girls,  —  handsome  children  all 
of  them,  and  very  fair  of  skin. 

The  country-folk  thought  O-Yuki  a 
wonderful  person,  by  nature  different  from 
themselves.  Most  of  the  peasant-women  age 
early ;  but  O-Yuki,  even  after  having  become 
the  mother  of  ten  children,  looked  as  young  and 
fresh  as  on  the  day  when  she  had  first  come  to 
the  village. 

One  night,  after  the  children  had 
gone  to  sleep,  O-Yuki  was  sewing  by  the  light 
116 


of  a  paper  lamp ;  and  Minokichi,  watching  her,    •|X 
said:- 

"To  see  you  sewing  there,  with  the 
light  on  your  face,  makes  me  think  of  a  strange 
thing  that  happened  when  I  was  a  lad  of  eigh 
teen.  I  then  saw  somebody  as  beautiful  and 
white  as  you  are  now  —  indeed,  she  was  very 
like  you."  .  .  . 

Without  lifting  her  eyes  from  her 
work,  O-Yuki  responded  :  — 

"  Tell  me  about  her.  .  .  .  Where  did 
you  see  her  ?  " 

Then  Minokichi  told  her  about  the 
terrible  night  in  the  ferryman's  hut,  —  and 
about  the  White  Woman  that  had  stooped  above 
him,  smiling  and  whispering, — and  about  the 
silent  death  of  old  Mosaku.  And  he  said  :  — 

"  Asleep  or  awake,  that  was  the  only 
time  that  I  saw  a  being  as  beautiful  as  you.  Of 
course,  she  was  not  a  human  being ;  and  I  was 
afraid  of  her,  —  very  much  afraid,  —  but  she 
was  so  white  !  .  .  .  Indeed,  I  have  never  been 
sure  whether  it  was  a  dream  that  I  saw,  or  the 
Woman  of  the  Snow."  .  .  . 

O-Yuki  flung  down  her  sewing,  and 
arose,  and  bowed  above  Minokichi  where  he  sat, 
and  shrieked  into  his  face  :  — 

"Itwas  I — I  —  I !  Yukiit  was!  And 
I  told  you  then  that  I  would  kill  you  if  you  ever 

117 


said  one  word  about  it !  .  .  .  But  for  those  chil- 
dren  asleep  there,  I  would  kill  you  this  moment ! 
And  now  you  had  better  take  very,  very  good 
care  of  them  ;  for  if  ever  they  have  reason  to 
complain  of  you,  I  will  treat  you  as  you  de 
serve  I"  .  .  . 

Even  as  she  screamed,  her  voice  be 
came  thin,  like  a  crying  of  wind ;  —  then  she 
melted  into  a  bright  white  mist  that  spired  to 
the  roof-beams,  and  shuddered  away  through 
the  smoke-hole.  .  .  .  Never  again  was  she 
seen. 


118 


THte 


THte 


IN  the  era  of  Bummei  [1469-1486] 
there  was  a  young  samurai  called  Tomotada  in 
the  service  of  Hatakeyama  Yoshimune,  the  Lord 
of  Noto.  Tomotada  was  a  native  of  Echizen ; 
but  at  an  early  age  he  had  been  taken,  as  page, 
into  the  palace  of  the  daimyo  of  Noto,  and  had 
been  educated,  under  the  supervision  of  that 
prince,  for  the  profession  of  arms.  As  he  grew 
up,  he  proved  himself  both  a  good  scholar  and 
a  good  soldier,  and  continued  to  enjoy  the  favor 
of  his  prince.  Being  gifted  with  an  amiable 

121 


ft 


character,  a  winning  address,  and  a  very  hand 
some  person,  he  was  admired  and  much  liked 
by  his  samurai-comrades. 

When  Tomotada  was  about  twenty 
years  old,  he  was  sent  upon  a  private  mission 
to  Hosokawa  Masamoto,  the  great  daimyo  of 
Kyoto,  a  kinsman  of  Hatakeyama  Yoshimune. 
Having  been  ordered  to  journey  through  Echizen, 
the  youth  requested  and  obtained  permission  to 
pay  a  visit,  on  the  way,  to  his  widowed  mother. 

It  was  the  coldest  period  of  the  year 
when  he  started  ;  the  country  was  covered  with 
snow ;  and,  though  mounted  upon  a  powerful 
horse,  he  found  himself  obliged  to  proceed 
slowly.  The  road  which  he  followed  passed 
through  a  mountain-district  where  the  settle 
ments  were  few  and  far  between  ;  and  on  the 
second  day  of  his  journey,  after  a  weary  ride 
of  hours,  he  was  dismayed  to  find  that  he  could 
not  reach  his  intended  halting-place  until  late  in 
the  night.  He  had  reason  to  be  anxious  ;  —  for 
a  heavy  snowstorm  came  on,  with  an  intensely 
cold  wind  ;  and  the  horse  showed  signs  of  ex 
haustion.  But,  in  that  trying  moment,  Tomotada 
unexpectedly  perceived  the  thatched  roof  of  a 
cottage  on  the  summit  of  a  near  hill,  where 
willow-trees  were  growing.  With  difficulty  he 
urged  his  tired  animal  to  the  dwelling ;  and 
he  loudly  knocked  upon  the  storm-doors,  which 

122 


had  been  closed  against  the  wind.  An  old  wo 
man  opened  them,  and  cried  out  compassionately 
at  the  sight  of  the  handsome  stranger  :  "  Ah, 
how  pitiful  !  —  a  young  gentleman  traveling 
alone  in  such  weather !  .  .  .  Deign,  young 
master,  to  enter." 

Tomotada  dismounted,  and  after  lead 
ing  his  horse  to  a  shed  in  the  rear,  entered  the 
cottage,  where  he  saw  an  old  man  and  a  girl 
warming  themselves  by  a  fire  of  bamboo  splints. 
They  respectfully  invited  him  to  approach  the 
fire ;  and  the  old  folks  then  proceeded  to  warm 
some  rice-wine,  and  to  prepare  food  for  the 
traveler,  whom  they  ventured  to  question  in  re 
gard  to  his  journey.  Meanwhile  the  young  girl 
disappeared  behind  a  screen.  Tomotada  had  ob 
served,  with  astonishment,  that  she  was  ex 
tremely  beautiful,  —  though  her  attire  was  of 
the  most  wretched  kind,  and  her  long,  loose  hair 
in  disorder.  He  wondered  that  so  handsome 
a  girl  should  be  living  in  such  a  miserable  and 
lonesome  place. 

The  old  man  said  to  him :  — 
"Honored  Sir,  the  next  village  is 
far ;  and  the  snow  is  falling  thickly.  The  wind 
is  piercing ;  and  the  road  is  very  bad.  There 
fore,  to  proceed  further  this  night  would  prob 
ably  be  dangerous.  Although  this  hovel  is 

123 


« 


unworthy  of  your  presence,  and  although  we 
have  not  any  comfort  to  offer,  perhaps  it  were 
safer  to  remain  to-night  under  this  miserable 
roof.  .  .  .  We  would  take  good  care  of  your 
horse." 

Tomotada  accepted  this  humble  pro 
posal, —  secretly  glad  of  the  chance  thus  af 
forded  him  to  see  more  of  the  young  girl. 
Presently  a  coarse  but  ample  meal  was  set 
before  him ;  and  the  girl  came  from  behind  the 
screen,  to  serve  the  wine.  She  was  now  reclad, 
in  a  rough  but  cleanly  robe  of  homespun  ;  and 
her  long,  loose  hair  had  been  neatly  combed  and 
smoothed.  As  she  bent  forward  to  fill  his  cup, 
Tomotada  was  amazed  to  perceive  that  she  was 
incomparably  more  beautiful  than  any  woman 
whom  he  had  ever  before  seen ;  and  there  was 
a  grace  about  her  every  motion  that  astonished 
him.  But  the  elders  began  to  apologize  for  her, 
saying:  "  Sir,  our  daughter,  Aoyagi,1  has  been 
brought  up  here,  in  the  mountains,  almost  alone  ; 
and  she  knows  nothing  of  gentle  service.  We 
pray  that  you  will  pardon  her  stupidity  and  her 
ignorance."  Tomotada  protested  that  he  deemed 
himself  lucky  to  be  waited  upon  by  so  comely 
a  maiden.  He  could  not  turn  his  eyes  away 
from  her  —  though  he  saw  that  his  admiring 

i  The  name  signifies  "Green  Willow;"  —  though  rarely 
met  with,  it  is  still  in  use. 
124 


gaze  made  her  blush  ;  —  and  he  left  the  wine  ,C£% 
and  food  untasted  before  him.  The  mother 
said :  "  Kind  Sir,  we  very  much  hope  that  *£*\ 
you  will  try  to  eat  and  to  drink  a  little, — 
though  our  peasant-fare  is  of  the  worst,  —  as 
you  must  have  been  chilled  by  that  piercing 
wind/'  Then,  to  please  the  old  folks,  Tomotada 
ate  and  drank  as  he  could ;  but  the  charm  of 
the  blushing  girl  still  grew  upon  him.  He  talked 
with  her,  and  found  that  her  speech  was  sweet 
as  her  face.  Brought  up  in  the  mountains  she 
might  have  been  ;  —  but,  in  that  case,  her  pa 
rents  must  at  some  time  have  been  persons  of 
high  degree ;  for  she  spoke  and  moved  like  a 
damsel  of  rank.  Suddenly  he  addressed  her 
with  a  poem  —  which  was  also  a  question  — 
inspired  by  the  delight  in  his  heart :  — 

"  Tadzunetsuru, 
Hana  ka  tot£  koso, 
Hi  wo  kurase, 
Akenu  ni  otoru 
Akan£  sasuran  ? " 

["  Being  on  my  way  to  pay  a  visit,  I  found 
that  which  I  took  to  be  a  flower :  therefore  here  I 
spend  the  day.  .  .  .  Why,  in  the  time  before  dawn, 
the  dawn-blush  tint  should  glow  —  that,  indeed,  I 
know  not"~\* 

1  The  poem  may  be  read  in  two  ways ;  several  of  the 

125 


ft 


Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  she 
answered  him  in  these  verses  :  — 

"  Izuru  hi  no 
Honomeku  iro  wo 
Waga  sode  ni 
Tsutsumaba  asu  mo 
Kimiya  tomaran." 

[" If 'with  my  sleeve  I  hide  the  faint  fair  color 
of  the  dawning  sun,  —  then,  perhaps,  in  the  morning 
my  lord  will  remain"]  J 

Then  Tomotada  knew  that  she  ac 
cepted  his  admiration  ;  and  he  was  scarcely  less 
surprised  by  the  art  with  which  she  had  uttered 
her  feelings  in  verse,  than  delighted  by  the  as 
surance  which  the  verses  conveyed.  He  was 
now  certain  that  in  all  this  world  he  could  not 
hope  to  meet,  much  less  to  win,  a  girl  more 
beautiful  and  witty  than  this  rustic  maid  before 

phrases  having  a  double  meaning.  But  the  art  of  its  con 
struction  would  need  considerable  space  to  explain,  and  could 
scarcely  interest  the  Western  reader.  The  meaning  which 
Tomotada  desired  to  convey  might  be  thus  expressed:  — 
"  While  journeying  to  visit  my  mother,  I  met  with  a  being 
lovely  as  a  flower ;  and  for  the  sake  of  that  lovely  person,  I 
am  passing  the  day  here.  .  .  .  Fair  one,  wherefore  that  dawn- 
like  blush  before  the  hour  of  dawn?  — can  it  mean  that  you 
love  me  ? " 

1  Another  reading  is  possible ;  but  this  one  gives  the  sig 
nification  of  the  answer  intended. 
126 


him  ;  and  a  voice  in  his  heart  seemed  to  cry  out    \7r* 

urgently,  "Take  the  luck  that  the  gods  have 
put  in  your  way  !  "  In  short  he  was  bewitched 
—  bewitched  to  such  a  degree  that,  without 
further  preliminary,  he  asked  the  old  people  to 
give  him  their  daughter  in  marriage,  —  telling 
them,  at  the  same  time,  his  name  and  lineage, 
and  his  rank  in  the  train  of  the  Lord  of  Noto. 

They  bowed  down  before  him,  with 
many  exclamations  of  grateful  astonishment. 
But,  after  some  moments  of  apparent  hesitation, 
the  father  replied  :  — 

"  Honored  master,  you  are  a  person 
of  high  position,  and  likely  to  rise  to  still  higher 
things.  Too  great  is  the  favor  that  you  deign 
to  offer  us  ;  —  indeed,  the  depth  of  our  gratitude 
therefor  is  not  to  be  spoken  or  measured.  But 
this  girl  of  ours,  being  a  stupid  country-girl  of 
vulgar  birth,  with  no  training  or  teaching  of  any 
sort,  it  would  be  improper  to  let  her  become 
the  wife  of  a  noble  samurai.  Even  to  speak  of 
such  a  matter  is  not  right.  .  .  .  But,  since  you 
find  the  girl  to  your  liking,  and  have  conde 
scended  to  pardon  her  peasant-manners  and  to 
overlook  her  great  rudeness,  we  do  gladly  pre 
sent  her  to  you,  for  an  humble  handmaid.  Deign, 
therefore,  to  act  hereafter  in  her  regard  accord 
ing  to  your  august  pleasure." 


127 


f/^  Ere  morning  the  storm  had  passed ; 

A  and  day  broke  through  a  cloudless  east.  Even 
if  the  sleeve  of  Aoyagi  hid  from  her  lover's  eyes 
the  rose-blush  of  that  dawn,  he  could  no  longer 
tarry.  But  neither  could  he  resign  himself  to 
part  with  the  girl ;  and,  when  everything  had 
been  prepared  for  his  journey,  he  thus  addressed 
her  parents :  — 

"  Though  it  may  seem  thankless  to 
ask  for  more  than  I  have  already  received,  I 
must  once  again  beg  you  to  give  me  your  daugh 
ter  for  wife.  It  would  be  difficult  for  me  to 
separate  from  her  now ;  and  as  she  is  willing  to 
accompany  me,  if  you  permit,  I  can  take  her 
with  me  as  she  is.  If  you  will  give  her  to  me, 
I  shall  ever  cherish  you  as  parents.  .  .  .  And, 
in  the  meantime,  please  to  accept  this  poor  ac 
knowledgment  of  your  kindest  hospitality." 

So  saying,  he  placed  before  his  hum 
ble  host  a  purse  of  gold  ryo.  But  the  old  man, 
after  many  prostrations,  gently  pushed  back  the 
gift,  and  said  :  — 

"Kind  master,  the  gold  would  be  of 
no  use  to  us ;  and  you  will  probably  have  need 
of  it  during  your  long,  cold  journey.  Here  we 
buy  nothing ;  and  we  could  not  spend  so  much 
money  upon  ourselves,  even  if  we  wished.  .  .  . 
As  for  the  girl,  we  have  already  bestowed  her 


128 


as  a  free  gift ;  —  she  belongs  to  you  :  therefore 
it  is  not  necessary  to  ask  our  leave  to  take  her 
away.  Already  she  has  told  us  that  she  hopes 
to  accompany  you,  and  to  remain  your  servant  5^ 
so  long  as  you  may  be  willing  to  endure  her 
presence.  We  are  only  too  happy  to  know  that 
you  deign  to  accept  her ;  and  we  pray  that  you 
will  not  trouble  yourself  on  our  account.  In 
this  place  we  could  not  provide  her  with  proper 
clothing,  —  much  less  with  a  dowry.  Moreover, 
being  old,  we  should  in  any  event  have  to  sepa 
rate  from  her  before  long.  Therefore  it  is  very 
fortunate  that  you  should  be  willing  to  take  her 
with  you  now." 

It  was  in  vain  that  Tomotada  tried  to 
persuade  the  old  people  to  accept  a  present :  he 
found  that  they  cared  nothing  for  money.  But 
he  saw  that^  they  were  really  anxious  to  trust 
their  daughter's  fate  to  his  hands ;  and  he  there 
fore  decided  to  take  her  with  him.  So  he  placed 
her  upon  his  horse,  and  bade  the  old  folks  fare 
well  for  the  time  being,  with  many  sincere  ex 
pressions  of  gratitude. 

"  Honored  Sir,"  the  father  made 
answer,  "  it  is  we,  and  not  you,  who  have  reason 
for  gratitude.  We  are  sure  that  you  will  be 
kind  to  our  girl ;  and  we  have  no  fears  for  her 
sake."  .  .  . 

129 


ff,  ^.  [Here,  in  the  Japanese  original,  there 

f  A  is  a  queer  break  in  the  natural  course  of  the 
narration,  which  therefrom  remains  curiously  in 
consistent.  Nothing  further  is  said  about  the 
mother  of  Tomotada,  or  about  the  parents  of 
Aoyagi,  or  about  the  daimyd  of  Noto.  Evidently 
the  writer  wearied  of  his  work  at  this  point, 
and  hurried  the  story,  very  carelessly,  to  its 
startling  end.  I  am  not  able  to  supply  his  omis 
sions,  or  to  repair  his  faults  of  construction  ;  but 
I  must  venture  to  put  in  a  few  explanatory  de 
tails,  without  which  the  rest  of  the  tale  would 
not  hold  together.  .  .  .  It  appears  that  Tomo 
tada  rashly  took  Aoyagi  with  him  to  Kyoto,  and 
so  got  into  trouble  ;  but  we  are  not  informed  as 
to  where  the  couple  lived  afterwards?^ 

.  .  .  Now  a  samurai  was  not  allowed 
to  marry  without  the  consent  of  his  lord  ;  and 
Tomotada  could  not  expect  to  obtain  this  sanc 
tion  before  his  mission  had  been  accomplished. 
He  had  reason,  under  such  circumstances,  to 
fear  that  the  beauty  of  Aoyagi  might  attract 
dangerous  attention,  and  that  means  might  be 
devised  of  taking  her  away  from  him.  In  Kyoto 
he  therefore  tried  to  keep  her  hidden  from  curi 
ous  eyes.  But  a  retainer  of  the  Lord  Hosoakwa 
one  day  caught  sight  of  Aoyagi,  discovered  her 
relation  to  Tomotada,  and  reported  the  mat- 
ISO 


ter  to  the  daimyo.  Thereupon  the  daimyo  —  a 
young  prince,  and  fond  of  pretty  faces  —  gave 
orders  that  the  girl  should  be  brought  to  the 
palace ;  and  she  was  taken  thither  at  once, 
without  ceremony. 

Tomotada  sorrowed  unspeakably  ;  but 
he  knew  himself  powerless.  He  was  only  an 
humble  messenger  in  the  service  of  a  far-off 
daimyo ;  and  for  the  time  being  he  was  at  the 
mercy  of  a  much  more  powerful  daimyo,  whose 
wishes  were  not  to  be  questioned.  Moreover 
Tomotada  knew  that  he  had  acted  foolishly,  — 
that  he  had  brought  about  his  own  misfortune, 
by  entering  into  a  clandestine  relation  which 
the  code  of  the  military  class  condemned. 
There  was  now  but  one  hope  for  him,  —  a  de 
sperate  hope :  that  Aoyagi  might  be  able  and 
willing  to  escape  and  to  flee  with  him.  After 
long  reflection,  he  resolved  to  try  to  send  her 
a  letter.  The  attempt  would  be  dangerous,  of 
course  :  any  writing  sent  to  her  might  find  its 
way  to  the  hands  of  the  daimyo ;  and  to  send  a 
love-letter  to  any  inmate  of  the  palace  was  an 
unpardonable  offense.  But  he  resolved  to  dare 
the  risk  ;  and,  in  the  form  of  a  Chinese  poem, 
he  composed  a  letter  which  he  endeavored  to 
have  conveyed  to  her.  The  poem  was  written 
with  only  twenty-eight  characters.  But  with 


ft 


•If 


those  twenty-eight  characters .  he  was  able  to 
express  all  the  depth  of  his  passion,  and  to 
suggest  all  the  pain  of  his  loss : r  - 

Koshi  5-son  gojin  wo  ou ; 
Ryokuju  namida  wo  tar£te  rakin  wo  hitataru ; 
Komon  hitotabi  irite  fukaki  koto  umi  no  gotoshi ; 
Kor6  yori  shoro  kore  rojin. 

[Closely,  closely  the  youthful  prince  now 
follows  after  the  gem-bright  maid  ;  — 

The  tears  of  the  fair  one,  falling,  have 
moistened  all  her  robes. 

But  the  august  lord,  having  once  become 
enamored  of  her  —  the  depth  of  his  longing  is  like  the 
depth  of  the  sea. 

Therefore  it  is  only  I  that  am  left  forlorn, 
—  only  I  that  am  left  to  wander  alone.~\ 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  after  this 
poem  had  been  sent,  Tomotada  was  summoned 
to  appear  before  the  Lord  Hosokawa.  The 
youth  at  once  suspected  that  his  confidence  had 
been  betrayed ;  and  he  could  not  hope,  if  his 
letter  had  been  seen  by  the  daimyo,  to  escape 
the  severest  penalty.  "  Now  he  will  order  my 
death,"  thought  Tomotada  ;  —  "  but  I  do  not 

1  So  the  Japanese  story-teller  would  have  us  believe,  — 
although  the  verses   seem  commonplace   in  translation.    I 
have  tried  to  give  only  their  general  meaning :  an  effective 
literal  translation  would  require  some  scholarship. 
I32 


care  to  live  unless  Aoyagi  be  restored  to  me. 
Besides,  if  the  death-sentence  be  passed,  I  can 
at  least  try  to  kill  Hosokawa."  He  slipped  his 
swords  into  his  girdle,  and  hastened  to  the 
palace. 

On  entering  the  presence-room  he  saw 
the  Lord  Hosokawa  seated  upon  the  da'fs,  sur 
rounded  by  samurai  of  high  rank,  in  caps  and 
robes  of  ceremony.  All  were  silent  as  statues  ; 
and  while  Tomotada  advanced  to  make  obei 
sance,  the  hush  seemed  to  him  sinister  and 
heavy,  like  the  stillness  before  a  storm.  But 
Hosokawa  suddenly  descended  from  the  da'fs, 
and,  taking  the  youth  by  the  arm,  began  to  re 
peat  the  words  of  the  poem  :  —  "  Koshi  d-son 
gojin  wo  ou"  .  .  .  And  Tomotada,  looking  up, 
saw  kindly  tears  in  the  prince's  eyes. 

Then  said  Hosokawa  :  — 

"  Because  you  love  each  other  so 
much,  I  have  taken  it  upon  myself  to  authorize 
your  marriage,  in  lieu  of  my  kinsman,  the  Lord 
of  Noto ;  and  your  wedding  shall  now  be  cele 
brated  before  me.  The  guests  are  assembled ; 
—  the  gifts  are  ready." 

At  a  signal  from  the  lord,  the  sliding- 
screens  concealing  a  further  apartment  were 
pushed  open ;  and  Tomotada  saw  there  many 
dignitaries  of  the  court,  assembled  for  the  cere 
mony,  and  Aoyagi  awaiting  him  in  bride's 

133 


ft 


apparel.  .  .  .  Thus  was  she  given  back  to 
him  ;  —  and  the  wedding  was  joyous  and  splen 
did  ;  —  and  precious  gifts  were  made  to  the 
young  couple  by  the  prince,  and  by  the  mem 
bers  of  his  household. 


For  five  happy  years,  after  that  wed 
ding,  Tomotada  and  Aoyagi  dwelt  together. 
But  one  morning  Aoyagi,  while  talking  with 
her  husband  about  some  household  matter,  sud 
denly  uttered  a  great  cry  of  pain,  and  then 
became  very  white  and  still.  After  a  few 
moments  she  said,  in  a  feeble  voice  :  "  Par 
don  me  for  thus  rudely  crying  out  —  but  the 
pain  was  so  sudden  !  .  .  .  My  dear  husband, 
our  union  must  have  been  brought  about  through 
some  Karma-relation  in  a  former  state  of  exist 
ence  ;  and  that  happy  relation,  I  think,  will 
bring  us  again  together  in  more  than  one  life 
to  come.  But  for  this  present  existence  of 
ours,  the  relation  is  now  ended  ;  —  we  are  about 
to  be  separated.  Repeat  for  me,  I  beseech  you, 
the  Nembutsu-Tprayer,  —  because  I  am  dying." 

"  Oh  !  what  strange  wild  fancies  !  " 
cried  the  startled  husband,  —  "  you  are  only 
134 


a  little  unwell,   my  dear  one!  ...  lie   down      ¥>?*+ 
for  a  while,  and   rest;  and   the   sickness  will 
pass."  .  .  . 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  responded  —  "  I  am 
dying !  —  I  do  not  imagine  it ;  —  I  know  !  .  .  . 
And  it  were  needless  now,  my  dear  husband, 
to  hide  the  truth  from  you  any  longer  :  —  I  am 
not  a  human  being.  The  soul  of  a  tree  is  my 
soul ;  —  the  heart  of  a  tree  is  my  heart ;  —  the 
sap  of  the  willow  is  my  life.  And  some  one,  at 
this  cruel  moment,  is  cutting  down  my  tree  ;  — 
that  is  why  I  must  die  !  .  .  .  Even  to  weep 
were  now  beyond  my  strength  !  —  quickly, 
quickly  repeat  the  Nembutsu  for  me  .  .  . 
quickly  !  ...  Ah  !  "... 

With  another  cry  of  pain  she  turned 
aside  her  beautiful  head,  and  tried  to  hide  her 
face  behind  her  sleeve.  But  almost  in  the  same 
moment  her  whole  form  appeared  to  collapse  in 
the  strangest  way,  and  to  sink  down,  down, 
down  —  level  with  the  floor.  Tomotada  had 
sprung  to  support  her  ;  —  but  there  was  nothing 
to  support !  There  lay  on  the  matting  only  the 
empty  robes  of  the  fair  creature  and  the  orna 
ments  that  she  had  worn  in  her  hair :  the  body 
had  ceased  to  exist.  .  .  . 

Tomotada  shaved  his  head,  took  the 

135 


Buddhist  vows,  and  became  an  itinerant  priest. 
He  traveled  through  all  the  provinces  of  the 
empire  ;  and,  at  all  the  holy  places  which  he 
visited,  he  offered  up  prayers  for  the  soul  of 
Aoyagi.  Reaching  Echizen,  in  the  course  of  his 
pilgrimage,  he  sought  the  home  of  the  parents 
of  his  beloved.  But  when  he  arrived  at  the 
lonely  place  among  the  hills,  where  their  dwell 
ing  had  been,  he  found  that  the  cottage  had 
disappeared.  There  was  nothing  to  mark  even 
the  spot  where  it  had  stood,  except  the  stumps 
of  three  willows  —  two  old  trees  and  one  young 
tree  —  that  had  been  cut  down  long  before  his 

arrival. 

Beside  the  stumps  of  those  willow- 
trees  he  erected  a  memorial  tomb,  inscribed 
with  divers  holy  texts ;  and  he  there  performed 
many  Buddhist  services  on  behalf  of  the  spirits 
of  Aoyagi  and  of  her  parents. 


136 


Usonoyona,— 
Jiu-roku-zakura 
Saki  ni  keri ! 


IN  Wake"gori,  a  district  of  the  pro 
vince  of  lyo,  there  is  a  very  ancient  and  famous 
cherry-tree,  called  Jiu-roku-zakura,  or  "the 
Cherry-tree  of  the  Sixteenth  Day,"  because  it 
blooms  every  year  upon  the  sixteenth  day  of 
the  first  month  (by  the  old  lunar  calendar),  — 
and  only  upon  that  day.  Thus  the  time  of  its 
flowering  is  the  Period  of  Great  Cold,  —  though 
the  natural  habit  of  a  cherry-tree  is  to  wait  for 
the  spring  season  before  venturing  to  blossom. 
But  the  Jiu-roku-zakura  blossoms  with  a  life 

139 


ft 


that  is  not  —  or,  at  least,  was  not  originally  — 
its  own.  There  is  the  ghost  of  a  man  in  that 
tree. 

He  was  a  samurai  of  lyo;  and  the 
tree  grew  in  his  garden ;  and  it  used  to  flower 
at  the  usual  time,  —  that  is  to  say,  about  the 
end  of  March  or  the  beginning  of  April.  He 
had  played  under  that  tree  when  he  was  a  child  ; 
and  his  parents  and  grandparents  and  ancestors 
had  hung  to  its  blossoming  branches,  season 
after  season  for  more  than  a  hundred  years, 
bright  strips  of  colored  paper  inscribed  with 
poems  of  praise.  He  himself  became  very  old,  — 
outliving  all  his  children  ;  and  there  was  nothing 
in  the  world  left  for  him  to  love  except  that 
tree.  And  lo !  in  the  summer  of  a  certain  year, 
the  tree  withered  and  died  ! 

Exceedingly  the  old  man  sorrowed  for 
his  tree.  Then  kind  neighbors  found  for  him  a 
young  and  beautiful  cherry-tree,  and  planted  it 
in  his  garden,  —  hoping  thus  to  comfort  him. 
And  he  thanked  them,  and  pretended  to  be 
glad.  But  really  his  heart  was  full  of  pain  ;  for 
he  had  loved  the  old  tree  so  well  that  nothing 
could  have  consoled  him  for  the  loss  of  it. 

At  last  there  came  to  him  a  happy 
thought :  he  remembered  a  way  by  which  the 
perishing  tree  might  be  saved.  (It  was  the  six- 
140 


teenth  day  of  the  first  month.)  Alone  he  went 
into  his  garden,  and  bowed  down  before  the 
withered  tree,  and  spoke  to  it,  saying  :  "  Now 
deign,  I  beseech  you,  once  more  to  bloom,  - 
because  I  am  going  to  die  in  your  stead."  (For 
it  is  believed  that  one  can  really  give  away  one's 
life  to  another  person,  or  to  a  creature,  or  even 
to  a  tree,  by  the  favor  of  the  gods ;  —  and  thus 
to  transfer  one's  life  is  expressed  by  the  term 
migawari  ni  tatsu,  "  to  act  as  a  substitute.") 
Then  under  that  tree  he  spread  a  white  cloth, 
and  divers  coverings,  and  sat  down  upon  the 
coverings,  and  performed  hara-kiri  after  the 
fashion  of  a  samurai.  And  the  ghost  of  him 
went  into  the  tree,  and  made  it  blossom  in  that 
same  hour. 

And  every  year  it  still  blooms  on  the 
sixteenth  day  of  the  first  month,  in  the  season 
of  snow. 


141 


THE 


- 


IN  the  district  called  ToYchi  of  Yamato 
province,  there  used  to  live  a  goshi  named  Mi- 
yata  Akinosuke.  ...  [Here  I  must  tell  you  that 
in  Japanese  feudal  times  there  was  a  privileged 
class  of  soldier-farmers,  —  free-holders,  —  cor 
responding  to  the  class  of  yeomen  in  England  ; 
and  these  were  called  goshi.] 

In  Akinosuke"'s  garden  there  was  a 
great  and  ancient  cedar-tree,  under  which  he 
was  wont  to  rest  on  sultry  days.  One  very  warm 
afternoon  he  was  sitting  under  this  tree  with 

US 


two  °*  kis  friends,  fellow-goshi,  chatting  and 
drinking  wine,  when  he  felt  all  of  a  sudden  very 
drowsy,  —  so  drowsy  that  he  begged  his  friends 
to  excuse  him  for  taking  a  nap  in  their  presence. 
Then  he  lay  down  at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  and 
dreamed  this  dream  :  — 

He  thought  that  as  he  was  lying 
there  in  his  garden,  he  saw  a  procession,  like 
the  train  of  some  great  daimyo,  descending  a 
hill  near  by,  and  that  he  got  up  to  look  at  it. 
A  very  grand  procession  it  proved  to  be,  — 
more  imposing  than  anything  of  the  kind  which 
he  had  ever  seen  before ;  and  it  was  advancing 
toward  his  dwelling.  He  observed  in  the  van 
of  it  a  number  of  young  men  richly  appareled, 
who  were  drawing  a  great  lacquered  palace- 
carriage,  or  gosho-gnruma,  hung  with  bright 
blue  silk.  When  the  procession  arrived  within 
a  short  distance  of  the  house  it  halted  ;  and  a 
richly  dressed  man  —  evidently  a  person  of  rank 
—  advanced  from  it,  approached  Akinosuke, 
bowed  to  him  profoundly,  and  then  said  :  — 

"  Honored  Sir,  you  see  before  you  a 
ktrai  [vassal]  of  the  Kokuo  of  Tokoyo.1    My 

1  This  name  "  Tokoyo  "  is  indefinite.  According  to  cir 
cumstances  it  may  signify  any  unknown  country,  —  or  that 
undiscovered  country  from  whose  bourn  no  traveler  re 
turns,  —  or  that  Fairyland  of  far-eastern  fable,  the  Realm  of 
H5rai.  The  term  "  Kokuo  "  means  the  ruler  of  a  country,  — 
therefore  a  king.  The  original  phrase,  Tokoyo  no  Kokuo, 
146 


master,  the  King,  commands  me  to  greet  you  A»> 
in  his  august  name,  and  to  place  myself  wholly 
at  your  disposal.  He  also  bids  me  inform  you 
that  he  augustly  desires  your  presence  at  the 
palace.  Be  therefore  pleased  immediately  to 
enter  this  honorable  carriage,  which  he  has  sent 
for  your  conveyance." 

Upon  hearing  these  words  Akinosuke 
wanted  to  make  some  fitting  reply ;  but  he  was 
too  much  astonished  and  embarrassed  for  speech ; 
—  and  in  the  same  moment  his  will  seemed  to 
melt  away  from  him,  so  that  he  could  only  do 
as  the  ktrai  bade  him.  He  entered  the  carriage  ; 
the  kerai  took  a  place  beside  him,  and  made  a 
signal ;  the  drawers,  seizing  the  silken  ropes, 
turned  the  great  vehicle  southward  ;  —  and  the 
journey  began. 

In  a  very  short  time,  to  Akinosuke 's 
amazement,  the  carriage  stopped  in  front  of  a 
huge  two-storied  gateway  ( romon ),  of  Chinese 
style,  which  he  had  never  before  seen.  Here 
the  kerai  dismounted,  saying,  "I  go  to  announce 
the  honorable  arrival,"  —  and  he  disappeared. 
After  some  little  waiting,  Akinosuke  saw  two 
noble-looking  men,  wearing  robes  of  purple 
silk  and  high  caps  of  the  form  indicating  lofty 
rank,  come  from  the  gateway.  These,  after  hav- 

might  be  rendered  here  as  "  the  Ruler  of  Horai,"  or  "  the 
King  of  Fairyland." 


ft 


ing  respectfully  saluted  him,  helped  him  to  de- 
scend  from  the  carriage,  and  led  him  through 
the  great  gate  and  across  a  vast  garden,  to  the 
entrance  of  a  palace  whose  front  appeared  to 
extend,  west  and  east,  to  a  distance  of  miles. 
Akinosuke  was  then  shown  into  a  reception- 
room  of  wonderful  size  and  splendor.  His  guides 
conducted  him  to  the  place  of  honor,  and  re 
spectfully  seated  themselves  apart ;  while  serv 
ing-maids,  in  costume  of  ceremony,  brought  re 
freshments.  When  Akinosuke  had  partaken  of 
the  refreshments,  the  two  purple-robed  attend 
ants  bowed  low  before  him,  and  addressed  him 
in  the  following  words,  —  each  speaking  alter 
nately,  according  to  the  etiquette  of  courts  :  — 

"It  is  now  our  honorable  duty  to  in 
form  you  ...  as  to  the  reason  of  your  having 
been  summoned  hither.  .  .  .  Our  master,  the 
King,  augustly  desires  that  you  become  his 
son-in-law ;  .  .  .  and  it  is  his  wish  and  com 
mand  that  you  shall  wed  this  very  day  .  .  .  the 
August  Princess,  his  maiden-daughter.  .  .  . 
We  shall  soon  conduct  you  to  the  presence- 
chamber  .  .  .  where  His  Augustness  even  now 
is  waiting  to  receive  you.  .  .  .  But  it  will  be 
necessary  that  we  first  invest  you  .  .  .  with 
the  appropriate  garments  of  ceremony."1 

1  The  last  phrase,  according  to  old  custom,  had  to  be  ut- 
148 


* 


Having  thus  spoken,  the  attendants  f|,— 
rose  together,  and  proceeded  to  an  alcove  con 
taining  a  great  chest  of  gold  lacquer.  They  ^j 
opened  the  chest,  and  took  from  it  various  robes 
and  girdles  of  rich  material,  and  a  kamuri,  or 
regal  headdress.  With  these  they  attired  Aki- 
riosuke  as  befitted  a  princely  bridegroom ;  and 
he  was  then  conducted  to  the  presence-room, 
where  he  saw  the  Kokuo  of  Tokoyo  seated  upon 
the  daiza*  wearing  the  high  black  cap  of  state, 
and  robed  in  robes  of  yellow  silk.  Before  the 
daiza,  to  left  and  right,  a  multitude  of  digni 
taries  sat  in  rank,  motionless  and  splendid  as 
images  in  a  temple ;  and  Akinosuke,  advancing 
into  their  midst,  saluted  the  king  with  the  triple 
prostration  of  usage.  The  king  greeted  him  with 
gracious  words,  and  then  said  :  — 

"  You  have  already  been  informed  as 
to  the  reason  of  your  having  been  summoned 
to  Our  presence.  We  have  decided  that  you 
shall  become  the  adopted  husband  of  Our  only 
daughter  ;  —  and  the  wedding  ceremony  shall 
now  be  performed.'* 

As  the  king  finished  speaking,  a  sound 

tered  by  both  attendants  at  the  same  time.  All  these  cere 
monial  observances  can  still  be  studied  on  the  Japanese 
stage. 

1  This  was  the  name  given  to  the  estrade,  or  dais,  upon 
which  a  feudal  prince  or  ruler  sat  in  state.  The  term  literally 
signifies  "  great  seat." 

149 


°f  joyful  music  was  heard  ;  and  a  long  train  of 
beautiful  court  ladies  advanced  from  behind  a 
curtain,  to  conduct  Akinosuke  to  the  room  in 
which  his  bride  awaited  him. 

The  room  was  immense ;  but  it  could 
scarcely  contain  the  multitude  of  guests  assem 
bled  to  witness  the  wedding  ceremony.  All 
bowed  down  before  Akinosuke  as  he  took  his 
place,  facing  the  King's  daughter,  on  the  kneel- 
ing-cushion  prepared  for  him.  As  a  maiden  of 
heaven  the  bride  appeared  to  be  ;  and  her  robes 
were  beautiful  as  a  summer  sky.  And  the  mar 
riage  was  performed  amid  great  rejoicing. 

Afterwards  the  pair  were  conducted 
to  a  suite  of  apartments  that  had  been  prepared 
for  them  in  another  portion  of  the  palace  ;  and 
there  they  received  the  congratulations  of  many 
noble  persons,  and  wedding  gifts  beyond  count 
ing. 

Some  days  later  Akinosuke  was  again 
summoned  to  the  throne-room.  On  this  occa 
sion  he  was  received  even  more  graciously  than 
before  ;  and  the  King  said  to  him  :  — 

"  In  the  southwestern  part  of  Our 
dominion  there  is  an  island  called  Raishu.  We 
have  now  appointed  you  Governor  of  that  is 
land.  You  will  find  the  people  loyal  and  docile  ; 
but  their  laws  have  not  yet  been  brought  into 
150 


proper  accord  with   the  laws  of  Tokoyo  ;  and    f|-^-» 
their  customs  have  not  been  properly  regulated. 
We  entrust   you  with  the  duty  of  improving    <^ 
their  social  condition  as  far  as  may  be  possible  ; 
and  We  desire  that  you  shall  rule  them  with 
kindness  and  wisdom.    All  preparations  neces 
sary  for  your  journey  to  Raishu  have  already 
been  made." 

So  Akinosuk^  and  his  bride  departed 
from  the  palace  of  Tokoyo,  accompanied  to  the 
shore  by  a  great  escort  of  nobles  and  officials ; 
and  they  embarked  upon  a  ship  of  state  pro 
vided  by  the  king.  And  with  favoring  winds 
they  safely  sailed  to  Raishu,  and  found  the 
good  people  of  that  island  assembled  upon  the 
beach  to  welcome  them. 

Akinosuke  entered  at  once  upon  his 
new  duties ;  and  they  did  not  prove  to  be  hard. 
During  the  first  three  years  of  his  governorship 
he  was  occupied  chiefly  with  the  framing  and 
the  enactment  of  laws ;  but  he  had  wise  coun 
selors  to  help  him,  and  he  never  found  the 
work  unpleasant.  When  it  was  all  finished,  he 
had  no  active  duties  to  perform,  beyond  attend 
ing  the  rites  and  ceremonies  ordained  by  an 
cient  custom.  The  country  was  so  healthy  and 
so  fertile  that  sickness  and  want  were  unknown  ; 


ft 


and  the  people  were  so  good  that  no  laws  were 
ever  broken.  And  Akinosuk6  dwelt  and  ruled 
in  Raishu  for  twenty  years  more,  —  making  in 
all  twenty-three  years  of  sojourn,  during  which 
no  shadow  of  sorrow  traversed  his  life. 

But  in  the  twenty-fourth  year  of  his 
governorship,  a  great  misfortune  came  upon 
him  ;  for  his  wife,  who  had  borne  him  seven 
children,  —  five  boys  and  two  girls,  —  fell  sick 
and  died.  She  was  buried,  with  high  pomp,  on 
the  summit  of  a  beautiful  hill  in  the  district  of 
Hanryok5  ;  and  a  monument,  exceedingly  splen 
did,  was  placed  above  her  grave.  But  Akinosuke 
felt  such  grief  at  her  death  that  he  no  longer 
cared  to  live. 

Now  when  the  legal  period  of  mourn 
ing  was  over,  there  came  to  Raishu,  from  the 
Tokoyo  palace,  a  shislia,  or  royal  messenger. 
The  shisha  delivered  to  Akinosuke  a  message 
of  condolence,  and  then  said  to  him :  - 

"  These  are  the  words  which  our  au 
gust  master,  the  King  of  Tokoyo,  commands 
that  I  repeat  to  you  :  *  We  will  now  send  you 
back  to  your  own  people  and  country.  As  for 
the  seven  children,  they  are  the  grandsons  and 
the  granddaughters  of  the  King,  and  shall  be 
fitly  cared  for.  Do  not,  therefore,  allow  your 
mind  to  be  troubled  concerning  them.' ' 
152 


On  receiving  this  mandate,  Akinosuke 
submissively  prepared  for  his  departure.  When 
all  his  affairs  had  been  settled,  and  the  cere 
mony  of  bidding  farewell  to  his  counselors  and 
trusted  officials  had  been  concluded,  he  was  es 
corted  with  much  honor  to  the  port.  There  he 
embarked  upon  the  ship  sent  for  him ;  and 
the  ship  sailed  out  into  the  blue  sea,  under  the 
blue  sky ;  and  the  shape  of  the  island  of 
Raishu  itself  turned  blue,  and  then  turned  gray, 
and  then  vanished  forever.  .  .  .  And  Akino 
suke  suddenly  awoke  —  under  the  cedar-tree  in 
his  own  garden  !  .  .  . 

For  the  moment  he  was  stupefied  and 
dazed.  But  he  perceived  his  two  friends  still 
seated  near  him,  —  drinking  and  chatting  mer 
rily.  He  stared  at  them  in  a  bewildered  way, 
and  cried  aloud,  — 

"  How  strange  !  " 

"  Akinosuk^  must  have  been  dream 
ing,"  one  of  them  exclaimed,  with  a  laugh. 
"What  did  you  see,  Akinosuke,  that  was 
strange  ?  " 

Then  Akinosuk^  told  his  dream,— 
that  dream  of  three-and- twenty  years'  sojourn 
in  the  realm  of  Tokoyo,  in  the  island  of  Rai 
shu  ;  —  and  they  were  astonished,  because  he 
had  really  slept  for  no  more  than  a  few  min 
utes. 

153 


One  goshi  said  ;  — 

"  Indeed,  you  saw  strange  things. 
We  also  saw  something  strange  while  you  were 
napping.  A  little  yellow  butterfly  was  flutter 
ing  over  your  face  for  a  moment  or  two ;  and 
we  watched  it.  Then  it  alighted  on  the  ground 
beside  you,  close  to  the  tree ;  and  almost  as 
soon  as  it  alighted  there,  a  big,  big  ant  came 
out  of  a  hole,  and  seized  it  and  pulled  it  down 
into  the  hole.  Just  before  you  woke  up,  we  saw 
that  very  butterfly  come  out  of  the  hole  again, 
and  flutter  over  your  face  as  before.  And  then 
it  suddenly  disappeared  :  we  do  not  know  where 
it  went." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  Akinosuke's  soul," 
the  other  goshi  said  ;  —  "  certainly  I  thought  I 
saw  it  fly  into  his  mouth.  .  .  .  But,  even  if 
that  butterfly  was  Akinosuke's  soul,  the  fact 
would  not  explain  his  dream." 

"  The  ants  might  explain  it,",  returned 
the  first  speaker.  "  Ants  are  queer  beings  — 
possibly  goblins.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  there  is  a  big 
ant's  nest  under  that  cedar-tree."  ,  .  . 

"  Let  us  look !  "  cried  Akinosuke, 
greatly  moved  by  this  suggestion.  And  he  went 
for  a  spade. 

The  ground  about  and  beneath  the 
cedar-tree  proved  to  have  been  excavated,  in  a 
154 


most  surprising  way,  by  a  prodigious  colony  of 
ants.  The  ants  had  furthermore  built  inside 
their  excavations ;  and  their  tiny  constructions 
of  straw,  clay,  and  stems  bore  an  odd  resem 
blance  to  miniature  towns.  In  the  middle  of  a 
structure  considerably  larger  than  the  rest  there 
was  a  marvelous  swarming  of  small  ants  around 
the  body  of  one  very  big  ant,  which  had  yellow 
ish  wings  and  a  long  black  head. 

"  Why,  there  is  the  King  of  my 
dream  !  "  cried  Akinosuke  ;  "  and  there  is  the 
palace  of  Tokoyo !  .  .  .  How  extraordinary ! 
.  .  .  Raishu  ought  to  lie  somewhere  southwest 
of  it  —  to  the  left  of  that  big  root.  .  .  .  Yes!  — 
here  it  is  !  ...  How  very  strange  !  Now  I 
am  sure  that  I  can  find  the  mountain  of  Han- 
ryok5,  and  the  grave  of  the  princess."  .  .  . 

In  the  wreck  of  the  nest  he  searched 
and  searched,  and  at  last  discovered  a  tiny 
mound,  on  the  top  of  which  was  fixed  a  water- 
worn  pebble,  in  shape  resembling  a  Buddhist 
monument.  Underneath  it  he  found  —  em 
bedded  in  clay  —  the  dead  body  of  a  female  ant. 


155 


His  name  was  Riki,  signifying 
Strength  ;  but  the  people  called  him  Riki-the- 
Simple,  or  Riki-the-Fool,  —  "  Riki-Baka,"  — 
because  he  had  been  born  into  perpetual  child 
hood.  For  the  same  reason  they  were  kind  to 
him, —  even  when  he  set  a  house  on  fire  by 
putting  a  lighted  match  to  a  mosquito-curtain, 
and  clapped  his  hands  for  joy  to  see  the  blaze. 
At  sixteen  years  he  was  a  tall,  strong  lad ;  but 
in  mind  he  remained  always  at  the  happy  age  of 
two,  and  therefore  continued  to  play  with  very 
small  children.  The  bigger  children  of  the 
neighborhood,  from  four  to  seven  years  old,  did 
not  care  to  play  with  him,  because  he  could  not 

159 


Ct/C 


learn  their  songs  and  games.  His  favorite  toy 
was  a  broomstick,  which  he  used  as  a  hobby  - 
horse  ;  and  for  hours  at  a  time  he  would  ride 
on  that  broomstick,  up  and  down  the  slope  in 
front  of  my  house,  with  amazing  peals  of  laugh 
ter.  But  at  last  he  became  troublesome  by  rea 
son  of  his  noise  ;  and  I  had  to  tell  him  that  he 
must  find  another  playground.  He  bowed  sub 
missively,  and  then  went  off,  —  sorrowfully 
trailing  his  broomstick  behind  him.  Gentle  at 
all  times,  and  perfectly  harmless  if  allowed  no 
chance  to  play  with  fire,  he  seldom  gave  anybody 
cause  for  complaint.  His  relation  to  the  life 
of  our  street  was  scarcely  more  than  that  of  a 
dog  or  a  chicken  ;  and  when  he  finally  disap 
peared,  I  did  not  miss  him.  Months  and  months 
passed  by  before  anything  happened  to  remind 
me  of  Riki. 

"What  has  become  of  Riki?"  I  then 
asked  the  old  woodcutter  who  supplies  our 
neighborhood  with  fuel.  I  remembered  that 
Riki  had  often  helped  him  to  carry  his  bundles. 

"  Riki-Baka  ?  "  answered  the  old  man. 
"  Ah,  Riki  is  dead  —  poor  fellow  !  .  .  .  Yes, 
he  died  nearly  a  year  ago,  very  suddenly  ;  the 
doctors  said  that  he  had  some  disease  of  the 
brain.  And  there  is  a  strange  story  now  about 
that  poor  Riki. 

"  When  Riki  died,  his  mother  wrote 
160 


his  name,  '  Riki-Baka,'  in  the  palm  of  his  left 
hand,  — putting '  Riki '  in  the  Chinese  character, 
and  '  Baka '  in  kana.  And  she  repeated  many 
prayers  for  him,  —  prayers  that  he  might  be 
reborn  into  some  more  happy  condition. 

"  Now,  about  three  months  ago,  in 
the  honorable  residence  of  Nanigashi-Sama,  in 
Kojimachi,  a  boy  was  born  with  characters  on 
the  palm  of  his  left  hand  ;  and  the  characters 
were  quite  plain  to  read,  — '  RiKi-BAKA  '  / 

"  So  the  people  of  that  house  knew 
that  the  birth  must  have  happened  in  answer  to 
somebody's  prayer  ;  and  they  caused  inquiry  to 
be  made  everywhere.  At  last  a  vegetable-seller 
brought  word  to  them  that  there  used  to  be  a 
simple  lad,  called  Riki-Baka,  living  in  the  Ushi- 
gome  quarter,  and  that  he  had  died  during  the 
last  autumn  ;  and  they  sent  two  men-servants 
to  look  for  the  mother  of  Riki. 

"  Those  servants  found  the  mother  of 
Riki,  and  told  her  what  had  happened  ;  and  she 
was  glad  exceedingly  —  for  that  Nanigashi  house 
is  a  very  rich  and  famous  house.  But  the  ser 
vants  said  that  the  family  of  Nanigashi-Sama 
were  very  angry  about  the  word  *  Baka '  on  the 
child's  hand.  *  And  where  is  your  Riki  buried  ? ' 
the  servants  asked.  '  He  is  buried  in  the  ceme 
tery  of  Zenddji,'  she  told  them.  '  Please  to  give 
us  some  of  the  clay  of  his  grave,'  they  requested. 

161 


"  So  she  went  with  them  to  the  tem- 
pie  Zendoji,  and  showed  them  Riki's  grave  ; 
and  they  took  some  of  the  grave-clay  away  with 
them,  wrapped  up  in  a  furoshiki?  .  .  .  They 
gave  Riki's  mother  some  money, — ten  yen.".  .  . 

"  But  what  did  they  want  with  that 
clay  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"Well,"  the  old  man  answered,  "you 
know  that  it  would  not  do  to  let  the  child 
grow  up  with  that  name  on  his  hand.  And  there 
is  no  other  means  of  removing  characters  that 
come  in  that  way  upon  the  body  of  a  child  : 
you  must  rub  the  skin  with  clay  taken  from  the 
grave  of  the  body  of  the  former  birth."  .  .  . 

1  A  square  piece  of  cotton-goods,  or  other  woven  material, 
used  as  a  wrapper  in  which  to  carry  small  packages. 


162 


JfT-MAWARJ 


ON  the  wooded  hill  behind  the  house 
Robert  and  I  are  looking  for  fairy-rings.  Robert 
is  eight  years  old,  comely,  and  very  wise  ;  —  I 
am  a  little  more  than  seven,  —  and  I  reverence 
Robert.  It  is  a  glowing  glorious  August  day ; 
and  the  warm  air  is  filled  with  sharp  sweet  scents 
of  resin. 

We  do  not  find  any  fairy-rings ;  but 
we  find  a  great  many  pine-cones  in  the  high 
grass.  ...  I  tell  Robert  the  old  Welsh  story 
of  the  man  who  went  to  sleep,  unawares,  inside 
of  a  fairy-ring,  and  so  disappeared  for  seven 
years,  and  would  never  eat  or  speak  after  his 

165 


friends  had  delivered  him  from  the  enchant 
ment. 

"  They  eat  nothing  but  the  points  of 
needles,  you  know,"  says  Robert. 

"  Who  ?  "  I  ask. 

"Goblins,"  Robert  answers. 

This  revelation  leaves  me  dumb  with 
astonishment  and  awe.  .  .  .  But  Robert  sud 
denly  cries  out :  — 

"  There  is  a  Harper  !  —  he  is  coming 
to  the  house  !  " 

And  down  the  hill  we  run  to  hear  the 
harper.  .  .  .  But  what  a  harper !  Not  like  the 
hoary  minstrels  of  the  picture-books.  A  swarthy, 
sturdy,  unkempt  vagabond,  with  black  bold 
eyes  under  scowling  black  brows.  More  like  a 
bricklayer  than  a  bard,  —  and  his  garments  are 
corduroy  ! 

"Wonder  if  he  is  going  to  sing  in 
Welsh  ?  "  murmurs  Robert. 

I  feel  too  much  disappointed  to  make 
any  remarks.  The  harper  poses  his  harp  —  a 
huge  instrument  —  upon  our  doorstep,  sets  all 
the  strings  ringing  with  a  sweep  of  his  grimy 
fingers,  clears  his  throat  with  a  sort  of  angry 
growl,  and  begins,  — 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms, 

Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day  .  .  . 
1 66 


The  accent,  the  attitude,  the  voice,  all 
fill  me  with  repulsion  unutterable,  —  shock  me 
with  a  new  sensation  of  formidable  vulgarity. 
I  want  to  cry  out  loud,  "  You  have  no  right 
to  sing  that  song  !  "  For  I  have  heard  it  sung 
by  the  lips  of  the  dearest  and  fairest  being  in 
my  little  world ;  —  and  that  this  rude,  coarse 
man  should  dare  to  sing  it  vexes  me  like  a 
mockery,  —  angers  me  like  an  insolence.  But 
only  for  a  moment!  .  .  .  With  the  utterance 
of  the  syllables  "  to-day,"  that  deep,  grim  voice 
suddenly  breaks  into  a  quivering  tenderness  in 
describable  ;  —  then,  marvelously  changing,  it 
mellows  into  tones  sonorous  and  rich  as  the 
bass  of  a  great  organ,  —  while  a  sensation  un 
like  anything  ever  felt  before  takes  me  by  the 
throat.  .  .  .  What  witchcraft  has  he  learned  ? 
what  secret  has  he  found  —  this  scowling  man 
of  the  road  ?  .  .  .  Oh  !  is  there  anybody  else 
in  the  whole  world  who  can  sing  like  that  ?  .  .  . 
And  the  form  of  the  singer  flickers  and  dims ; 
—  and  the  house,  and  the  lawn,  and  all  visible 
shapes  of  things  tremble  and  swim  before  me. 
Yet  instinctively  I  fear  that  man  ;  —  I  almost 
hate  him  ;  and  I  feel  myself  flushing  with  anger 
and  shame  because  of  his  power  to  move  me 
thus.  .  .  . 

"  He  made   you   cry,"  Robert   com- 

167 


ft 


passionately  observes,  to  my  further  confusion, 
—  as  the  harper  strides  away,  richer  by  a  gift 
of  sixpence  taken  without  thanks.  ..."  But  I 
think  he  must  be  a  gipsy.  Gipsies  are  bad  peo 
ple  —  and  they  are  wizards.  .  .  .  Let  us  go 
back  to  the  wood." 

We  climb  again  to  the  pines,  and 
there  squat  down  upon  the  sun-flecked  grass, 
and  look  over  town  and  sea.  But  we  do  not 
play  as  before  :  the  spell  of  the  wizard  is 
strong  upon  us  both.  .  .  .  "Perhaps  he  is 
a  goblin,"  I  venture  at  last,  "or  a  fairy?" 
"  No/'  says  Robert,  — "  only  a  gipsy.  But 
that  is  nearly  as  bad.  They  steal  children,  you 
know."  .  .  . 

"  What  shall  we  do  if  he  comes  up 
here  ?  "  I  gasp,  in  sudden  terror  at  the  lone- 
someness  of  our  situation. 

"  Oh,  he  would  n't  dare,"  answers 
Robert  —  "  not  by  daylight,  you  know."  .  .  . 


[Only  yesterday,  near  the  village  of 
Takata,  I  noticed  a  flower  which  the  Japanese 
call  by  nearly  the  same  name  as  we  do :  Hi- 
mawari,  "The  Sunward-turning;"  —  and  over 
the  space  of  forty  years  there  thrilled  back  to 
me  the  voice  of  that  wandering  harper,  — 
168 


As  the   Sunflower  turns  on  •  her  god,   when  he     jfv^-% 
sets, 

The  same  look  that  she  turned  when  he  rose. 


Again  I  saw  the  sun-flecked  shadows  on  that 
far  Welsh  hill  ;  and  Robert  for  a  moment  again 
stood  beside  me,  with  his  girl's  face  and  his 
curls  of  gold.  We  were  looking  for  fairy-rings. 
.  .  .  But  all  Jhat  existed  of  the  real  Robert 
must  long  agb  have  suffered  a  sea-change  into 
something  rich  and  strange.  .  .  .  Greater  love 
hath  no  man  tlian  this,  that  a  man  lay  down  his 
life  for  his  friend.  .  .  .  ] 


169 


BLUE  vision  of  depth  lost  in  height,  — - 
sea  and  sky  interblending  through  luminous 
haze.  The  day  is  of  spring,  and  the  hour 
morning. 

Only  sky  and  sea,  —  one  azure  enor 
mity.  ...  In  the  fore,  ripples  are  catching  a 
silvery  light,  and  threads  of  foam  are  swirling. 
But  a  little  further  off  no  motion  is  visible,  nor 
anything  save  color  :  dim  warm  blue  of  water 
widening  away  to  melt  into  blue  of  air.  Hori 
zon  there  is  none  :  only  distance  soaring  into 
space,  —  infinite  concavity  hollowing  before 
you,  and  hugely  arching  above  you,  —  the 
color  deepening  with  the  height.  But  far  in 

173 


ft 


the  midway-blue  there  hangs  a  faint,  faint  vision 
of  palace  towers,  with  high  roofs  horned  and 
curved  like  moons,  —  some  shadowing  of  splen 
dor  strange  and  old,  illumined  by  a  sunshine 
soft  as  memory. 

.  .  .  What  I  have  thus  been  trying  to 
describe  is  a  kakemono,  —  that  is  to  say,  a  Jap 
anese  painting  on  silk,  suspended  to  the  wall  of 
my  alcove;  —  and  the  name  of  it  is  SHINKIRO, 
which  signifies  "  Mirage."  But  the  shapes  of 
the  mirage  are  unmistakable.  Those  are  the 
glimmering  portals  of  Horai  the  blest ;  and 
those  are  the  moony  roofs  of  the  Palace  of 
the  Dragon-King  ;  —  and  the  fashion  of  them 
(though  limned  by  a  Japanese  brush  of  to-day) 
is  the  fashion  of  things  Chinese,  twenty-one 
hundred  years  ago.  .  .  . 

Thus  much  is  told  of  the  place  in  the 
Chinese  books  of  that  time  :  — 

In  Horai  there  is  neither  death  nor 
pain  ;  and  there  is  no  winter.  The  flowers  in 
that  place  never  fade,  and  the  fruits  never  fail ; 
and  if  a  man  taste  of  those  fruits  even  but  once, 
he  can  never  again  feel  thirst  or  hunger.  In 
Horai  grow  the  enchanted  plants  So-rin-ski,  and 
Riku-go-aoi,  and  Ban-kon-td,  which  heal  all  man 
ner  of  sickness  ;  —  and  there  grows  also  the 
magical  grass  Yo-skin-shi,  that  quickens  the 
174 


dead  ;  and  the  magical  grass  is  watered  by  a  pt^ 
fairy  water  of  which  a  single  drink  confers  per 
petual  youth.  The  people  of  Horai  eat  their  rice 
out  of  very,  very  small  bowls  ;  but  the  rice  never 
diminishes  within  those  bowls,  —  however  much 
of  it  be  eaten,  —  until  the  eater  desires  no  more. 
And  the  people  of  Horai  drink  their  wine  out 
of  very,  very  small  cups  ;  but  no  man  can  empty 
one  of  those  cups, —  however  stoutly  he  may 
drink,  —  until  there  comes  upon  him  the  plea 
sant  drowsiness  of  intoxication. 

All  this  and  more  is  told  in  the  le 
gends  of  the  time  of  the  Shin  dynasty.  But 
that  the  people  who  wrote  down  those  legends 
ever  saw  Horai,  even  in  a  mirage,  is  not  believ 
able.  For  really  there  are  no  enchanted  fruits 
which  leave  the  eater  forever  satisfied,  —  nor 
any  magical  grass  which  revives  the  dead,  — 
nor  any  fountain  of  fairy  water,  —  nor  any  bowls 
which  never  lack  rice,  —  nor  any  cups  which 
never  lack  wine.  It  is  not  true  that  sorrow  and 
death  never  enter  Horai ;  —  neither  is  it  true 
that  there  is  not  any  winter.  The  winter  in 
Horai  is  cold;  —  and  winds  then  bite  to  the 
bone ;  and  the  heaping  of  snow  is  monstrous  on 
the  roofs  of  the  Dragon-King. 

Nevertheless  there  are  wonderful 
things  in  H5rai ;  and  the  most  wonderful  of  all 

175 


has  not  been  mentioned  by  any  Chinese  writer. 
I  mean  the  atmosphere  of  Horai.  It  is  an  at- 
mosphere  peculiar  to  the  place  ;  and,  because  of 
it,  the  sunshine  in  Horai  is  whiter  than  any 
other  sunshine,  — a  milky  light  that  never  daz 
zles,  —  astonishingly  clear,  but  very  soft.  This 
atmosphere  is  not  of  our  human  period  :  it  is 
enormously  old,  —  so  old  that  I  feel  afraid  when 
I  try  to  think  how  old  it  is ;  —  and  it  is  not  a 
mixture  of  nitrogen  and  oxygen.  It  is  not  made 
of  air  at  all,  but  of  ghost,  —  the  substance  of 
quintillions  of  quintillions  of  generations  of  souls 
blended  into  one  immense  translucency,  —  souls 
of  people  who  thought  in  ways  never  resembling 
our  ways.  Whatever  mortal  man  inhales  that 
atmosphere,  he  takes  into  his  blood  the  thrilling 
of  these  spirits  ;  and  they  change  the  senses 
within  him,  —  reshaping  his  notions  of  Space 
and  Time,  —  so  that  he  can  see  only  as  they 
used  to  see,  and  feel  only  as  they  used  to  feel, 
and  think  only  as  they  used  to  think.  Soft  as 
sleep  are  these  changes  of  sense  ;  and  Horai, 
discerned  across  them,  might  thus  be  de 
scribed  :  — 

—  Because  in  Horai  there  is  no  know 
ledge  of  great  evil,  the  hearts  of  the  people  never 
grow  old.  And,  by  reason  of  being  always  young 
in  heart,  the  people  of  Horai  smile  from  birth 


until  death  —  except  when  the  Gods  send  sorrow 
among  them  ;  and  faces  then  are  veiled  until  the 
sorrow  goes  away.  All  folk  in  Horai  love  and 
trust  each  other,  as  if  all  were  members  of  a  sin 
gle  household ;  —  and  the  speech  of  the  women 
is  like  birdsong,  because  the  hearts  of  them  are 
light  as  the  souls  of  birds  ;  —  and  the  swaying 
of  the  sleeves  of  the  maidens  at  play  seems  a 
flutter  of  wide,  soft  wings.  In  Horai  nothing  is 
hidden  but  grief,  because  there  is  no  reason  for 
shame  ;  —  and  nothing  is  locked  away,  because 
there  could  not  be  any  theft ;  —  and  by  night  as 
well  as  by  day  all  doors  remain  unbarred,  be 
cause  there  is  no  reason  for  fear.  And  because 
the  people  are  fairies  —  though  mortal  —  all 
things  in  Horai,  except  the  Palace  of  the  Dragon- 
King,  are  small  and  quaint  and  queer ;  — and 
these  fairy -folk  do  really  eat  their  rice  out  of  very 
small  bowls,  and  drink  their  wine  out  of  very, 
very  small  cups.  .  .  . 

—  Much  of  this  seeming  would  be 
due  to  the  inhalation  of  that  ghostly  atmosphere 
—  but  not  all.  For  the  spell  wrought  by  the 
dead  is  only  the  charm  of  an  Ideal,  the  glamour 
of  an  ancient  hope ;  —  and  something  of  that 
hope  has  found  fulfillment  in  many  hearts,  —  in 
the  simple  beauty  of  unselfish  lives,  —  in  the 
sweetness  of  Woman.  .  .  . 

17; 


ft 


—  Evil  winds  from  the  West  are 
blowing  over  Horai ;  and  the  magical  atmo 
sphere,  alas !  is  shrinking  away  before  them. 
It  lingers  now  in  patches  only,  and  bands,  — 
like  those  long  bright  bands  of  cloud  that  trail 
across  the  landscapes  of  Japanese  painters. 
Under  these  shreds  of  the  elfish  vapor  you  still 
can  find  Horai  —  but  not  elsewhere.  .  .  .  Re 
member  that  Horai  is  also  called  Shinkiro, 
which  signifies  Mirage,  —  the  Vision  of  the 
Intangible.  And  the  Vision  is  fading,  —  never 
again  to  appear  save  in  pictures  and  poems  and 
dreams. 


BUTTERFLY     DANCE 


WOULD  that  I  could  hope  for  the  luck 
of  that  Chinese  scholar  known  to  Japanese  liter 
ature  as  "  Rosan  "  !  For  he  was  beloved  by  two 
spirit-maidens,  celestial  sisters,  who  every  ten 
days  came  to  visit  him  and  to  tell  him  stories 
about  butterflies.  Now  there  are  marvelous  Chi 
nese  stories  about  butterflies  — ghostly  stories  ; 
and  I  want  to  know  them.  But  never  shall  I  be 
able  to  read  Chinese,  nor  even  Japanese  ;  and 
the  little  Japanese  poetry  that  I  manage,  with 
exceeding  difficulty,  to  translate,  contains  so 
many  allusions  to  Chinese  stories  of  butterflies 
that  I  am  tormented  with  the  torment  of  Tanta 
lus.  .  .  .  And,  of  course,  no  spirit-maidens  will 

181 


ever  deign  to  visit  so  skeptical  a  person   as 
myself. 

I  want  to  know,  for  example,  the 
whole  story  of  that  Chinese  maiden  whom  the 
butterflies  took  to  be  a  flower,  and  followed  in 
multitude,  —  so  fragrant  and  so  fair  was  she. 
Also  I  should  like  to  know  something  more 
concerning  the  butterflies  of  the  Emperor  Genso, 
or  Ming  Hwang,  who  made  them  choose  his 
loves  for  him.  ...  He  used  to  hold  wine-par 
ties  in  his  amazing  garden  ;  and  ladies  of  ex 
ceeding  beauty  were  in  attendance  ;  and  caged 
butterflies,  set  free  among  them,  would  fly  to 
the  fairest;  and  then,  upon  that  fairest  the 
Imperial  favor  was  bestowed.  But  after  Genso 
Kotei  had  seen  Yokihi  (whom  the  Chinese  call 
Yang-Kwei-Fei),  he  would  not  suffer  the  but 
terflies  to  choose  for  him,  —  which  was  unlucky, 
as  Yokihi  got  him  into  serious  trouble.  .  .  . 
Again,  I  should  like  to  know  more  about  the 
experience  of  that  Chinese  scholar,  celebrated 
in  Japan  under  the  name  of  Soshu,  who  dreamed 
that  he  was  a  butterfly,  and  had  all  the  sensa 
tions  of  a  butterfly  in  that  dream.  For  his  spirit 
had  really  been  wandering  about  in  the  shape 
of  a  butterfly  ;  and,  when  he  awoke,  the  memo 
ries  and  the  feelings  of  butterfly  existence  re 
mained  so  vivid  in  his  mind  that  he  could  not 
act  like  a  human  being.  .  .  .  Finally  I  should 
182 


like  to  know  the  text  of  a  certain  Chinese  official 
recognition  of  sundry  butterflies  as  the  spirits 
of  an  Emperor  and  of  his  attendants.  .  .  . 

Most  of  the  Japanese  literature  about 
butterflies,  excepting  some  poetry,  appears  to 
be  of  Chinese  origin  ;  and  even  that  old  na 
tional  aesthetic  feeling  on  the  subject,  which 
found  such  delightful  expression  in  Japanese 
art  and  song  and  custom,  may  have  been  first 
developed  under  Chinese  teaching.  Chinese 
precedent  doubtless  explains  why  Japanese 
poets  and  painters  chose  so  often  for  their 
geimyo,  or  professional  appellations,  such  names 
as  Chomu  ("  Butterfly-Dream),"  Icho  ("  Solitary 
Butterfly),"  etc.  And  even  to  this  day  such  gri 
my  o  as  Chohana  ("  Butterfly-Blossom  "),  Choki- 
chi  ("Butterfly-Luck"),  or  Chonosukt  ("But 
terfly-Help  "),  are  affected  by  dancing-girls. 
Besides  artistic  names  having  reference  to  but 
terflies,  there  are  still  in  use  real  personal  names 
(yobina)  of  this  kind,  —  such  as  Kocho,  or  Cho, 
meaning  "  Butterfly."  They  are  borne  by  wo 
men  only,  as  a  rule,  —  though  there  are  some 
strange  exceptions.  .  .  .  And  here  I  may  men 
tion  that,  in  the  province  of  Mutsu,  there  still 
exists  the  curious  old  custom  of  calling  the 
youngest  daughter  in  a  family  Te^o^a^  —  which 
quaint  word,  obsolete  elsewhere,  signifies  in 

183 


Mutsu  dialect  a  butterfly.    In  classic  time  this 
word  signified  also  a  beautiful  woman.  .  .  . 

It  is  possible  also  that  some  weird 
Japanese  beliefs  about  butterflies  are  of  Chinese 
derivation ;  but  these  beliefs  might  be  older 
than  China  herself.  The  most  interesting  one, 
I  think,  is  that  the  soul  of  a  living  person  may 
wander  about  in  the  form  of  a  butterfly.  Some 
pretty  fancies  have  been  evolved  out  of  this 
belief,  —  such  as  the  notion  that  if  a  butterfly 
enters  your  guest-room  and  perches  behind  the 
bamboo  screen,  the  person  whom  you  most  love 
is  coming  to  see  you.  That  a  butterfly  may  be 
the  spirit  of  somebody  is  not  a  reason  for  being 
afraid  of  it.  Nevertheless  there  are  times  when 
even  butterflies  can  inspire  fear  by  appearing  in 
prodigious  numbers ;  and  Japanese  history  re 
cords  such  an  event.  When  Tai'ra-no-Masakado 
was  secretly  preparing  for  his  famous  revolt, 
there  appeared  in  Kyoto  so  vast  a  swarm  of 
butterflies  that  the  people  were  frightened,  — 
thinking  the  apparition  to  be  a  portent  of  com 
ing  evil.  .  .  .  Perhaps  those  butterflies  were 
supposed  to  be  the  spirits  of  the  thousands 
doomed  to  perish  in  battle,  and  agitated  on  the 
eve  of  war  by  some  mysterious  premonition  of 
death. 

However,  in  Japanese  belief,  a  butter- 
184 


fly  may  be  the  soul  of  a  dead  person  as  well  ^H 
as  of  a  living  person.  Indeed  it  is  a  cus- 
torn  of  souls  to  take  butterfly-shape  in  order 
to  announce  the  fact  of  their  final  departure 
from  the  body ;  and  for  this  reason  any  but 
terfly  which  enters  a  house  ought  to  be  kindly 
treated. 

To  this  belief,  and  to  queer  fancies 
connected  with  it,  there  are  many  allusions  in 
popular  drama.  For  example,  there  is  a  well- 
known  play  called  Tond£-ctiru-Kocho-no-Kanza- 
shi ;  or,  "The  Flying  Hairpin  of  Kocho." 
Kocho  is  a  beautiful  person  who  kills  herself 
because  of  false  accusations  and  cruel  treatment. 
Her  would-be  avenger  long  seeks  in  vain  for 
the  author  of  the  wrong.  But  at  last  the  dead 
woman's  hairpin  turns  into  a  butterfly,  and  serves 
as  a  guide  to  vengeance  by  hovering  above  the 
place  where  the  villain  is  hiding. 

—  Of  course  those  big  paper  butter 
flies  (p-cho  and  me-cko)  which  figure  at  weddings 
must  not  be  thought  of  as  having  any  ghostly 
signification.  As  emblems  they  only  express 
the  joy  of  loving  union,  and  the  hope  that  the 
newly  married  couple  may  pass  through  life  to 
gether  as  a  pair  of  butterflies  flit  lightly  through 
some  pleasant  garden,  —  now  hovering  upward, 
now  downward,  but  never  widely  separating. 


* 


II 


A  small  selection  of  hokku  on  but 
terflies  will  help  to  illustrate  Japanese  interest 
in  the  aesthetic  side  of  the  subject.  Some  are 
pictures  only,  —  tiny  color-sketches  made  with 
seventeen  syllables ;  some  are  nothing  more 
than  pretty  fancies,  or  graceful  suggestions  ;  — 
but  the  reader  will  find  variety.  Probably  he 
will  not  care  much  for  the  verses  in  themselves. 
The  taste  for  Japanese  poetry  of  the  epigram 
matic  sort  is  a  taste  that  must  be  slowly  ac 
quired  ;  and  it  is  only  by  degrees,  after  patient 
study,  that  the  possibilities  of  such  composition 
can  be  fairly  estimated.  Hasty  criticism  has 
declared  that  to  put  forward  any  serious  claim 
on  behalf  of  seventeen-sy liable  poems  "  would 
be  absurd."  But  what,  then,  of  Crashaw's  fa 
mous  line  upon  the  miracle  at  the  marriage 
feast  in  Cana  ?  — 

Nympha  pudica  Deum  vidit,  et  erubuit* 
Only    fourteen     syllables  —  and     immortality. 

*  "  The  modest  nymph  beheld  her  God,  and  blushed." 
(Or,  in  a  more  familiar  rendering  :  "  The  modest  water  saw 
its  God,  and  blushed.")  In  this  line  the  double  value 
of  the  word  nympha  —  used  by  classical  poets  both  in  the 
meaning  of  fountain  and  in  that  of  the  divinity  of  a  foun 
tain,  or  spring  —  reminds  one  of  that  graceful  playing  with 
words  which  Japanese  poets  practice. 

1 86 


Now  with  seventeen  Japanese  syllables  things 
quite  as  wonderful  —  indeed,  much  more  won 
derful —  have  been  done,  not  once  or  twice, 
but  probably  a  thousand  times.  .  .  .  However, 
there  is  nothing  wonderful  in  the  following 
hokku,  which  have  been  selected  for  more  than 
literary  reasons  :  — 

Nugi-kakuru  r 
Haori  sugata  no 
Kocho  kana ! 

{Like  a  haori  being  taken  off —  that  is  the 
shape  of  a  butterfly  /] 

Torisashi  no 

Sao  no  jama  suru, 

Kocho  kana ! 

1  More  usually  written  nugi-kaktru,  which  means  either 
"  to  take  off  and  hang  up,"  or  "  to  begin  to  take  off,"  —  as  in 
the  above  poem.  More  loosely,  but  more  effectively,  the 
verses  might  thus  be  rendered  :  "  Like  a  woman  slipping 
off  her  haori — that  is  the  appearance  of  a  butterfly."  One 
must  have  seen  the  Japanese  garment  described,  to  appreciate 
the  comparison.  The  haori  is  a  silk  upper-dress,  —  a  kind  of 
sleeved  cloak,  —  worn  by  both  sexes  ;  but  the  poem  suggests 
a  woman's  haori,  which  is  usually  of  richer  color  or  material. 
The  sleeves  are  wide  ;  and  the  lining  is  usually  of  brightly- 
colored  silk,  often  beautifully  variegated.  In  taking  off  the 
haori,  the  brilliant  lining  is  displayed,  —  and  at  such  an  in 
stant  the  fluttering  splendor  might  well  be  likened  to  the  ap 
pearance  of  a  butterfly  in  motion. 

187 


\Ah,  the  butterfly  keeps  getting  in  the  way 
of  the  bird-catcher's  pole  ! z] 

Tsurigane  ni 

Tomarite  nemuru 

Koch5  kana ! 

\_Perchcd  upon  the  temple-bell,  the  butterfly 
sleeps^ 

Neru-uchi  mo 
Asobu-yume  wo  ya  — 
Kusa  no  cho ! 

\_Even  while  sleeping,  its  dream  is  of  play 
—  ah,  the  butterfly  of  the  grass  /*] 

Oki,  oki  yo ! 
Waga  tomo  ni  sen, 
N^ru-kocho ! 

[  Wake  up  !  wake  up  ! —  I  will  make  thee 
my  comrade,  thou  sleeping  butterfly ?\ 

1  The  bird-catcher's  pole  is  smeared  with  bird-lime ;  and 
the  verses  suggest  that  the  insect  is  preventing  the  man  from 
using  his  pole,  by  persistently  getting  in  the  way  of  it,  —  as 
the  birds  might  take  warning  from  seeing  the  butterfly  limed. 
Jama  suru  means  "  to  hinder  "  or  "  prevent." 

2  Even  while  it  is  resting,  the  wings  of  the  butterfly  may 
be  seen  to   quiver  at  moments,  —  as  if  the   creature  were 
dreaming  of  flight. 

3  A  little  poem  by  Basho,  greatest  of  all  Japanese  composers 
of  hokku.  The  verses  are  intended  to  suggest  the  joyous 
feeling  of  spring-time. 

1 88 


Kago  no  tori 
Cho  wo  urayamu 
Metsuki  kana ! 

[Ah,  the  sad  expression  in  the  eyes  of  that 
caged  bird  !  —  envying  the  butterfly  /  ] 

Cho  tond£  — 
Kaze  naki  hi  to  mo 
Miezari  ki ! 

[Even   though  it  did  not  appear  to  be  a 
windy  day*  the  fluttering  of  the  butterflies /] 

Rakkwa  eda  ni 
Kae'ru  to  mireba  — 
Kocho  kana ! 

[  When  I  saw  the  fallen  flower  return  to 
the  branch  —  lo  !  it  was  only  a  butterfly  /*] 

1  Literally,  "  a  windless  day ;  "  but  two  negatives  in  Japan 
ese  poetry  do  not  necessarily  imply  an  affirmative,  as  in  Eng 
lish.    The  meaning  is,  that  although  there  is  no  wind,  the  flut 
tering  motion  of  the  butterflies  suggests,  to  the  eyes  at  least, 
that  a  strong  breeze  is  playing. 

2  Alluding    to    the    Buddhist    proverb :    Rakkwa   Sda   ni 
kaerazu  ,•  ha-kyo  futatabi  terasazu  ("  The  fall  en  flower  returns 
not  to  the  branch  ;  the  broken  mirror  never  again  reflects.") 
So  says  the  proverb  —  yet  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  saw  a 
fallen  flower  return  to  the  branch.  .  .  .  No :  it  was  only  a 
butterfly. 

189 


Chiru-hana  ni — 
Karusa  arasoii 
Kocho  kana ! 

\How  the  butterfly  strives  to  compete  in 
lightness  with  the  falling  flowers  !  r] 

Chocho  ya ! 
Onna  no  michi  no 
Ato  ya  saki ! 

[See  that  butterfly  on  the  woman's  path,  — 
now  fluttering  behind  her^  now  before  !  ] 

Chocho  ya  ! 

s  J 

Hana-nusubito  wo 
Tsuke'te'-yuku ! 

\Ha  !  the  butterfly  ! —  it  is  following  the 
person  who  stole  the  flowers  /] 

Aki  no  cho 
Tomo  nakereba  ya  ; 
Hito  ni  tsuku. 

[Poor  autumn  butterfly  ! —  when  left  with 
out  a  comrade  (of  its  own  race),  it  follows  after  man 
(or  "  a  person  "  )  !  ] 

1  Alluding  probably  to  the  light  fluttering  motion  of  fall 
ing  cherry-petals. 
IQO 


Owarete  mo, 
Isoganu  furi  no 
Chocho  kana ! 

[Ah,  the  butterfly  !  Even  when  chased,  it 
never  has  the  air  of  being  in  a  hurry, .]  ^ 

Cho  wa  mina 

Jiu-shichi-hachi  no 

Sugata  kana ! 

[As  for  butterflies,  they  all  have  the  ap 
pearance  of  being  about  seventeen  or  eighteen  years 
old.1] 

Cho  tobu  ya  — 
Kono  yo  no  urami 
Naki  yo  ni ! 

[How  the  butterfly  sports,  — just  as  if 
there  were  no  enmity  (or  "  envy  ")  in  this  world  f] 

Cho  tobu  ya, 
Kono  yo  ni  nozomi 
Nai  yd  ni ! 

[Ah,  the  butterfly  ! —  it  sports  about  as  if 
it  had  nothing  more  to  desire  in  this  present  state  of 
existence^ 

1  That  is  to  say,  the  grace  of  their  motion  makes  one 
think  of  the  grace  of  young  girls,  daintily  costumed,  in  robes 
with  long  fluttering  sleeves.  .  .  .  An  old  Japanese  proverb 
declares  that  even  a  devil  is  pretty  at  eighteen  :  Oni  mo  jiu- 
kachi  azami  no  hana  :  "  Even  a  devil  at  eighteen,  flower-of- 
the-thistle." 

191 


Nami  no  hana  ni 
Tomari  kanetaru, 
Kocho  kana ! 

[Having  found  it  difficult  indeed  to  perch 
upon  the  {foam-)  blossoms  of  the  waves,  —  alas  for 
the  butterfly  /] 

Mutsumashi  ya !  — 
Umare-kawaraba 
Nobe  no  cho.1 

[If  {in  our  next  existence)  we  be  born  into 
the  state  of  butterflies  upon  the  moor,  then  perchance 
we  may  be  happy  together  /] 

Nadeshiko  ni 
Chocho  shiroshi  — 
Tare  no  kon  ? 2 

\On  the  pink-flower  there  is  a  white  butter 
fly  :  whose  spirit ',  /  wonder  ?] 

Ichi-nichi  no 
Tsuma  to  miek^ri  — 
Cho  futatsu. 

\The  one-day  wife  has  at  last  appeared — 
a  pair  of  butterflies  /] 

1  Or  perhaps  the  verses  might  be  more  effectively  ren 
dered   thus  :  "  Happy  together,  do  you  say  ?    Yes  —  if  we 
should  be  reborn  as  field-butterflies  in  some  future  life  :  then 
we  might  accord  !  "   This  poem  was  composed  by  the  cele 
brated  poet  Issa,  on  the  occasion  of  divorcing  his  wife. 

2  Or,  Tart  no  tama  ? 
192 


Kite  wa  maii, 

Futari  shidzuka  no 

Kocho  kana ! 

[Approaching  they  dance;  but  when   the      xVf^* 
two  meet  at  last  they  are  very  quiet,  the  butterflies  /] 

Cho  wo  oii 
Kokoro-mochitashi 
Itsumade"mo  ! 

[  Would  that  I  might  always  have  the 
heart  (desire)  of  chasing  butterflies  ! *  J~ 


Besides  these  specimens  of  poetry 
about  butterflies,  I  have  one  queer  example  to 
offer  of  Japanese  prose  literature  on  the  same 
topic.  The  original,  of  which  I  have  attempted 
only  a  free  translation,  can  be  found  in  the  cu 
rious  old  book  Mushi-Isamt  ("  Insect-Admoni 
tions  ") ;  and  it  assumes  the  form  of  a  discourse 
to  a  butterfly.  But  it  is  really  a  didactic  alle 
gory,  —  suggesting  the  moral  significance  of  a 
social  rise  and  fall :  — 

/•  *  Literally,  "  Butterfly-pursuing  heart  I  wish  to  have  al- 
v  '  ways  ;  "  —  i.  c.,  I  would  that  I  might  always  be  able  to  find 
'  I  pleasure  in  simple  things,  like  a  happy  child. 

193 


"  Now,  under  the  sun  of  spring,  the 
winds  are  gentle,  and  flowers  pinkly  bloom,  and 
grasses  are  soft,  and  the  hearts  of  people  are 
glad.  Butterflies  everywhere  flutter  joyously : 
so  many  persons  now  compose  Chinese  verses 
and  Japanese  verses  about  butterflies. 

"  And  this  season,  O  Butterfly,  is  in 
deed  the  season  of  your  bright  prosperity  :  so 
comely  you  now  are  that  in  the  whole  world 
there  is  nothing  more  comely.  For  that  reason 
all  other  insects  admire  and  envy  you  ;  —  there 
is  not  among  them  even  one  •  that  does  not  envy 
you.  Nor  do  insects  alone  regard  you  with 
envy :  men  also  both  envy  and  admire  you. 
Soshu  of  China,  in  a  dream,  assumed  your 
shape ;  —  Sakoku  of  Japan,  after  dying,  took 
your  form,  and  therein  made  ghostly  apparition. 
Nor  is  the  envy  that  you  inspire  shared  only  by 
insects  and  mankind  :  even  things  without  soul 
change  their  form  into  yours  ;  —  witness  the 
barley-grass,  which  turns  into  a  butterfly.1 

"And  therefore  you  are  lifted  up 
with  pride,  and  think  to  yourself :  '  In  all 
this  world  there  is  nothing  superior  to  me ! ' 
Ah !  I  can  very  well  guess  what  is  in  your 
heart :  you  are  too  much  satisfied  with  your 
own  person.  That  is  why  you  let  yourself  be 
blown  thus  lightly  about  by  every  wind ;  — 

1  An  old  popular  error,  —  probably  imported  from  China. 
194 


that  is  why  you  never  remain  still,  —  always, 
always  thinking :  '  In  the  whole  world  there  is 
no  one  so  fortunate  as  I.' 

"  But  now  try  to  think  a  little  about 
your  own  personal  history.  It  is  worth  recall 
ing;  for  there  is  a  vulgar  side  to  it.  How  a 
vulgar  side  ?  Well,  for  a  considerable  time 
after  you  were  born,  you  had  no  such  reason 
for  rejoicing  in  your  form.  You  were  then  a 
mere  cabbage-insect,  a  hairy  worm ;  and  you 
were  so  poor  that  you  could  not  afford  even  one 
robe  to  cover  your  nakedness  ;  and  your  ap 
pearance  was  altogether  disgusting.  Everybody 
in  those  days  hated  the  sight  of  you.  Indeed 
you  had  good  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  ; 
and  so  ashamed  you  were  that  you  collected  old 
twigs  and  rubbish  to  hide  in,  and  you  made  a 
hiding-nest,  and  hung  it  to  a  branch,  —  and 
then  everybody  cried  out  at  you,  '  Raincoat  In 
sect  ! '  (Mino-mushi.} l  And  during  that  period 
of  your  life,  your  sins  were  grievous.  Among 
the  tender  green  leaves  of  beautiful  cherry- 
trees  you  and  your  fellows  assembled,  and 
there  made  ugliness  extraordinary ;  and  the  ex- 

1  A  name  suggested  by  the  resemblance  of  the  larva's 
artificial  covering  to  the  mino,  or  straw-raincoat,  worn  by 
Japanese  peasants.  I  am  not  sure  whether  the  dictionary 
rendering,  " basket- worm,"  is  quite  correct; — but  the  larva 
commonly  called  minomushi  does  really  construct  for  itself 
something  much  like  the  covering  of  the  basket-worm. 

195 


pectant  eyes  of  the  people,  who  came  from  far 
away  to  admire  the  beauty  of  those  cherry- 
trees,  were  hurt  by  the  sight  of  you.  And  of 
things  even  more  hateful  than  this  you  were 
guilty.  You  knew  that  poor,  poor  men  and  wo 
men  had  been  cultivating  daikon  in  their  fields, 
—  toiling  and  toiling  under  the  hot  sun  till 
their  hearts  were  filled  with  bitterness  by  rea 
son  of  having  to  care  for  that  daikon ;  and 
you  persuaded  your  companions  to  go  with  you, 
and  to  gather  upon  the  leaves  of  that  daikon, 
and  on  the  leaves  of  other  vegetables  planted 
by  those  poor  people.  Out  of  your  greediness 
you  ravaged  those  leaves,  and  gnawed  them 
into  all  shapes  of  ugliness,  —  caring  nothing  for 
the  trouble  of  those  poor  folk.  .  .  .  Yes,  such  a 
creature  you  were,  and  such  were  your  doings. 

"  And  now  that  you  have  a  comely 
form,  you  despise  your  old  comrades,  the  in 
sects  ;  and,  whenever  you  happen  to  meet  any  of 
them,  you  pretend  not  to  know  them  [literally, 
4  You  make  an  I-don't-know  face'].  Now  you 
want  to  have  none  but  wealthy  and  exalted 
people  for  friends.  .  .  .  Ah  !  you  have  forgot 
ten  the  old  times,  have  you  ? 

"  It  is  true  that  many  people  have 
forgotten  your  past,  and  are  charmed  by  the 
sight  of  your  present  graceful  shape  and  white 
wings,  and  write  Chinese  verses  and  Japanese 


verses  about  you.  The  high-born  damsel,  who 
could  not  bear  even  to  look  at  you  in  your 
former  shape,  now  gazes  at  you  with  delight, 
and  wants  you  to  perch  upon  her  hairpin,  and 
holds  out  her  dainty  fan  in  the  hope  that  you 
will  light  upon  it.  But  this  reminds  me  that 
there  is  an  ancient  Chinese  story  about  you, 
which  is  not  pretty. 

"In  the  time  of  the  Emperor  Genso, 
the  Imperial  Palace  contained  hundreds  and 
thousands  of  beautiful  ladies,  —  so  many,  in 
deed,  that  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  any 
man  to  decide  which  among  them  was  the  love 
liest.  So  all  of  those  beautiful  persons  were 
assembled  together  in  one  place  ;  and  you  were 
set  free  to  fly  among  them ;  and  it  was  decreed 
that  the  damsel  upon  whose  hairpin  you  perched 
should  be  augustly  summoned  to  the  Imperial 
Chamber.  In  that  time  there  could  not  be 
more  than  one  Empress  —  which  was  a  good 
law  ;  but,  because  of  you,  the  Emperor  Genso 
did  great  mischief  in  the  land.  For  your  mind 
is  light  and  frivolous  ;  and  although  among  so 
many  beautiful  women  there  must  have  been 
some  persons  of  pure  heart,  you  would  look  for 
nothing  but  beauty,  and  so  betook  yourself 
to  the  person  most  beautiful  in  outward  appear 
ance.  Therefore  many  of  the  female  attendants 
ceased  altogether  to  think  about  the  right  way 

197 


of  women,  and  began  to  study  how  to  make 
themselves  appear  splendid  in  the  eyes  of  men. 
And  the  end  of  it  was  that  the  Emperor  Genso 
died  a  pitiful  and  painful  death  —  all  because 
of  your  light  and  trifling  mind.  Indeed,  your 
real  character  can  easily  be  seen  from  your  con 
duct  in  other  matters.  There  are  trees,  for  ex 
ample,  —  such  as  the  evergreen-oak  and  the 
pine,  —  whose  leaves  do  not  fade  and  fall,  but 
remain  always  green  ;  —  these  are  trees  of  firm 
heart,  trees  of  solid  character.  But  you  say 
that  they  are  stiff  and  formal ;  and  you  hate 
the  sight  of  them,  and  never  pay  them  a  visit. 
Only  to  the  cherry-tree,  and  the  kaido*  and 
the  peony,  and  the  yellow  rose  you  go  :  those 
you  like  because  they  have  showy  flowers,  and 
you  try  only  to  please  them.  Such  conduct, 
let  me  assure  you,  is  very  unbecoming.  Those 
trees  certainly  have  handsome  flowers ;  but 
hunger-satisfying  fruits  they  have  not ;  and 
they  are  grateful  to  those  only  who  are  fond  of 
luxury  and  show.  And  that  is  just  the  reason 
why  they  are  pleased  by  your  fluttering  wings 
and  delicate  shape  ;  —  that  is  why  they  are  kind 
to  you. 

"  Now,  in  this  spring  season,  while 
you  sportively  dance  through  the  gardens  of  the 
wealthy,  or  hover  among  the  beautiful  alleys  of 

lPyrus  spectabilis. 
198 


cherry-trees  in  blossom,  you  say  to  yourself : 
'  Nobody  in  the  world  has  such  pleasure  as  I, 
or  such  excellent  friends.  And,  in  spite  of  all  £f 
that  people  may  say,  I  most  love  the  peony,  — 
and  the  golden  yellow  rose  is  my  own  darling, 
and  I  will  obey  her  every  least  behest ;  for  that 
is  my  pride  and  my  delight.'  ...  So  you  say. 
But  the  opulent  and  elegant  season  of  flowers  is 
very  short :  soon  they  will  fade  and  fall.  Then, 
in  the  time  of  summer  heat,  there  will  be  green 
leaves  only  ;  and  presently  the  winds  of  autumn 
will  blow,  when  even  the  leaves  themselves  will 
shower  down  like  rain,  parari-parari .  And  your 
fate  will  then  be  as  the  fate  of  the  unlucky  in 
the  proverb,  Tanomi  ki  no  shita  ni  am£  furu 
[Even  through  the  tree  on  which  I  relied  for  shel 
ter  the  rain  leaks  down].  For  you  will  seek  out 
your  old  friend,  the  root-cutting  insect,  the  grub, 
and  beg  him  to  let  you  return  into  your  old- 
time  hole  ;  —  but  now  having  wings,  you  will 
not  be  able  to  enter  the  hole  because  of  them, 
and  you  will  not  be  able  to  shelter  your  body 
anywhere  between  heaven  and  earth,  and  all 
the  moor-grass  will  then  have  withered,  and 
you  will  not  have  even  one  drop  of  dew  with 
which  to  moisten  your  tongue,  —  and  there  will 
be  nothing  left  for  you  to  do  but  to  lie  down 
and  die.  All  because  of  your  light  and  frivolous 
heart  —  but,  ah!  how  lamentable  an  end  ! "  .  .  . 

199 


* 


III 


Most  of  the  Japanese  stories  about 
butterflies  appear,  as  I  have  said,  to  be  of  Chi 
nese  origin.  But  I  have  one  which  is  probably 
indigenous ;  and  it  seems  to  me  worth  telling  for 
the  benefit  of  persons  who  believe  that  there  is 
no  "  romantic  love  "  in  the  Far  East. 

Behind  the  cemetery  of  the  temple  of 
Sozanji,  in  the  suburbs  of  the  capital,  there 
long  stood  a  solitary  cottage,  occupied  by  an 
old  man  named  Takahama.  He  was  liked  in  the 
neighborhood,  by  reason  of  his  amiable  ways  ; 
but  almost  everybody  supposed  him  to  be  a  little 
mad.  Unless  a  man  take  the  Buddhist  vows,  he 
is  expected  to  marry,  and  to  bring  up  a  family. 
But  Takahama  did  not  belong  to  the  religious 
life  ;  and  he  could  not  be  persuaded  to  marry. 
Neither  had  he  ever  been  known  to  enter  into  a 
love-relation  with  any  woman.  For  more  than 
fifty  years  he  had  lived  entirely  alone. 

One  summer  he  fell  sick,  and  knew 
that  he  had  not  long  to  live.  He  then  sent  for 
his  sister-in-law,  a  widow,  and  for  her  only  son, 
—  a  lad  of  about  twenty  years  old,  to  whom  he 
was  much  attached.  Both  promptly  came,  and 
did  whatever  they  could  to  soothe  the  old  man's 
last  hours. 
200 


One  sultry  afternoon,  while  the  widow 
and  her  son  were  watching  at  his  bedside,  Taka- 
hama  fell  asleep.  At  the  same  moment  a  very  Jw^ 
large  white  butterfly  entered  the  room,  and  / 
perched  upon  the  sick  man's  pillow.  The  nephew 
drove  it  away  with  a  fan ;  but  it  returned  im 
mediately  to  the  pillow,  and  was  again  driven 
away,  only  to  come  back  a  third  time.  Then 
the  nephew  chased  it  into  the  garden,  and  across 
the  garden,  through  an  open  gate,  into  the  cem 
etery  of  the  neighboring  temple.  But  it  con 
tinued  to  flutter  before  him  as  if  unwilling  to 
be  driven  further,  and  acted  so  queerly  that  he 
began  to  wonder  whether  it  was  really  a  butter 
fly,  or  a  ma.1  He  again  chased  it,  and  followed 
it  far  into  the  cemetery,  until  he  saw  it  fly 
against  a  tomb,  —  a  woman's  tomb.  There  it 
unaccountably  disappeared ;  and  he  searched 
for  it  in  vain.  He  then  examined  the  monument. 
It  bore  the  personal  name  "  Akiko,"  together 
with  an  unfamiliar  family  name,  and  an  inscrip 
tion  stating  that  Akiko  had  died  at  the  age  of 
eighteen.  Apparently  the  tomb  had  been  erected 
about  fifty  years  previously :  moss  had  begun 
to  gather  upon  it.  But  it  had  been  well  cared 
for  :  there  were  fresh  flowers  before  it ;  and 
the  water-tank  had  recently  been  filled. 

On  returning  to  the  sick  room,  the 

1  An  evil  spirit. 

201 


young  man  was  shocked  by  the  announcement 
that  his  uncle  had  ceased  to  breathe.  Death 
had  come  to  the  sleeper  painlessly  ;  and  the 
dead  face  smiled. 

The  young   man  told  his  mother  of 
what  he  had  seen  in  the  cemetery. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  widow,   "then 
it  must  have  been  Akiko  ! "  .  .  . 

"  But  who  was  Akiko,  mother  ?  "  the 
nephew  asked. 

The  widow  answered  :  — 

"  When  your  good  uncle  was  young 
he  was  betrothed  to  a  charming  girl  called 
Akiko,  the  daughter  of  a  neighbor.  Akiko  died 
of  consumption,  only  a  little  before  the  day 
appointed  for  the  wedding ;  and  her  promised 
husband  sorrowed  greatly.  After  Akiko  had 
been  buried,  he  made  a  vow  never  to  marry ; 
and  he  built  this  little  house  beside  the  ceme 
tery,  so  that  he  might  be  always  near  her  grave. 
All  this  happened  more  than  fifty  years  ago. 
And  every  day  of  those  fifty  years  —  winter 
and  summer  alike  —  your  uncle  went  to  the 
cemetery,  and  prayed  at  the  grave,  and  swept 
the  tomb,  and  set  offerings  before  it.  But  he 
did  not  like  to  have  any  mention  made  of  the 
matter  ;  and  he  never  spoke  of  it.  .  .  .  So,  at 
last,  Akiko  came  for  him  :  the  white  butterfly 
was  her  soul." 
202 


I  had  almost  forgotten  to  mention  an  ^ 
ancient  Japanese  dance,  called  the  Butterfly  yfj*^ 
Dance  (Kockd-Mai),  which  used  to  be  performed 
in  the  Imperial  Palace,  by  dancers  costumed  as 
butterflies.  Whether  it  is  danced  occasionally 
nowadays  I  do  not  know.  It  is  said  to  be  very 
difficult  to  learn.  Six  dancers  are  required  for 
the  proper  performance  of  it  ;  and  they  must 
move  in  particular  figures,  —  obeying  traditional 
rules  for  every  step,  pose,  or  gesture,  —  and 
circling  about  each  other  very  slowly  to  the 
sound  of  hand-drums  and  great  drums,  small 
flutes  and  great  flutes,  and  pandean  pipes  of  a 
form  unknown  to  Western  Pan. 


203 


WITH  a  view  to  self-protection  I  have 
been  reading  Dr.  Howard's  book,  "  Mosquitoes." 
I  am  persecuted  by  mosquitoes.  There  are  sev 
eral  species  in  my  neighborhood ;  but  only  one 
of  them  is  a  serious  torment,  —  a  tiny  needly 
thing,  all  silver-speckled  and  silver-streaked.  The 
puncture  of  it  is  sharp  as  an  electric  burn ;  and 
the  mere  hum  of  it  has  a  lancinating  quality  of 
tone  which  foretells  the  quality  of  the  pain  about 
to  come,  —  much  in  the  same  way  that  a  par 
ticular  smell  suggests  a  particular  taste.  I  find 
that  this  mosquito  much  resembles  the  creature 
which  Dr.  Howard  calls  Stegomyia  fasciata^  or 
Culex  fasciatus :  and  that  its  habits  are  the 

207 


* 


same  as  those  of  the  Stegomyia.  For  example, 
it  is  diurnal  rather  than  nocturnal,  and  becomes 
most  troublesome  during  the  afternoon.  And  I 
have  discovered  that  it  comes  from  the  Buddhist 
cemetery,  —  a  very  old  cemetery,  —  in  the  rear 
of  my  garden. 

Dr.  Howard's  book  declares  that,  in 
order  to  rid  a  neighborhood  of  mosquitoes,  it 
is  only  necessary  to  pour  a  little  petroleum,  or 
kerosene  oil,  into  the  stagnant  water  where  they 
breed.  Once  a  week  the  oil  should  be  used, 
"  at  the  rate  of  one  ounce  for  every  fifteen  square 
feet  of  water-surface,  and  a  proportionate  quan 
tity  for  any  less  surface."  .  .  .  But  please  to 
consider  the  conditions  in  my  neighborhood ! 

I  have  said  that  my  tormentors  come 
from  the  Buddhist  cemetery.  Before  nearly 
every  tomb  in  that  old  cemetery  there  is  a 
water-receptacle,  or  cistern,  called  mizutamt. 
In  the  majority  of  cases  this  mizutamt  is  sim 
ply  an  oblong  cavity  chiseled  in  the  broad  pe 
destal  supporting  the  monument ;  but  before 
tombs  of  a  costly  kind,  having  no  pedestal-tank, 
a  larger  separate  tank  is  placed,  cut  out  of  a 
single  block  of  stone,  and  decorated  with  a 
family  crest,  or  with  symbolic  carvings.  In 
front  of  a  tomb  of  the  humblest  class,  having 
no  mizutamt,  water  is  placed  in  cups  or  other 
208 


vessels,  —  for  the  dead  must  have  water.  -Flow- 
ers  also  must  be  offered  to  them ;  and  before 
every  tomb  you  will  find  a  pair  of  bamboo  cups, 
or  other  flower-vessels ;  and  these,  of  course, 
contain  water.  There  is  a  well  in  the  cemetery 
to  supply  water  for  the  graves.  Whenever  the 
tombs  are  visited  by  relatives  and  friends  of 
the  dead,  fresh  water  is  poured  into  the  tanks 
and  cups.  But  as  an  old  cemetery  of  this  kind 
contains  thousands  of  mizutamt,  and  tens  of 
thousands  of  flower-vessels,  the  water  in  all 
of  these  cannot  be  renewed  every  day.  It  be 
comes  stagnant  and  populous.  The  deeper  tanks 
seldom  get  dry  ;  —  the  rainfall  at  Tokyo  being 
heavy  enough  to  keep  them  partly  filled  during 
nine  months  out  of  the  twelve. 

Well,  it  is  in  these  tanks  and  flower- 
vessels  that  mine  enemies  are  born  :  they  rise 
by  millions  from  the  water  of  the  dead  ;  —  and, 
according  to  Buddhist  doctrine,  some  of  them 
may  be  reincarnations  of  those  very  dead,  con 
demned  by  the  error  of  former  lives  to  the 
condition  of  Jiki-ketsu-gaki,  or  blood-drinking 
pretas.  .  .  .  Anyhow  the  malevolence  of  the 
Culex  fasciatus  would  justify  the  suspicion 
that  some  wicked  human  soul  had  been  com 
pressed  into  that  wailing  speck  of  a  body.  .  .  . 

Now,    to   return    to   the    subject   of 

209 


kerosene-oil,  you  can  exterminate  the  mosqui 
toes  of  any  locality  by  covering  with  a  film  of 
kerosene  all  stagnant  water  surfaces  therein. 
The  larvae  die  on  rising  to  breathe  ;  and  the 
adult  females  perish  when  they  approach  the 
water  to  launch  their  rafts  of  eggs.  And  I 
read,  in  Dr.  Howard's  book,  that  the  actual 
cost  of  freeing  from  mosquitoes  one  American 
town  of  fifty  thousand  inhabitants,  does  not 
exceed  three  hundred  dollars  !  .  .  . 

I  wonder  what  would  be  said  if  the 
city-government  of  Tokyo  —  which  is  aggres 
sively  scientific  and  progressive  —  were  sud 
denly  to  command  that  all  water-surfaces  in  the 
Buddhist  cemeteries  should  be  covered,  at  regu 
lar  intervals,  with  a  film  of  kerosene  oil !  How 
could  the  religion  which  prohibits  the  taking 
of  any  life  —  even  of  invisible  life  —  yield  to 
such  a  mandate  ?  Would  filial  piety  even  dream 
of  consenting  to  obey  such  an  order  ?  And  then 
to  think  of  the  cost,  in  labor  and  time,  of  put 
ting  kerosene  oil,  every  seven  days,  into  the 
millions  of  mizutamt,  and  the  tens  of  millions 
of  bamboo  flower-cups,  in  the  Tokyo  grave 
yards  !  .  .  .  Impossible  !  To  free  the  city  from 
mosquitoes  it  would  be  necessary  to  demolish 
the  ancient  graveyards  ;  —  and  that  would  sig 
nify  the  ruin  of  the  Buddhist  temples  attached 

2IO 


to  them  ;  —  and  that  would  mean  the  dispari- 
tion  of  so  many  charming  gardens,  with  their 
lotus-ponds    and    Sanscrit-lettered    monuments      \jflf 
and  humpy  bridges  and  holy  groves  and  weirdly-    x/^/ 
smiling  Buddhas  !    So  the  extermination  of  the 
Culex  fasciatus  would  involve  the  destruction 
of  the  poetry  of  the  ancestral  cult,  —  surely  too 
great  a  price  to  pay  !  .  .  . 

Besides,  I  should  like,  when  my  time 
comes,  to  be  laid  away  in  some  Buddhist  grave 
yard  of  the  ancient  kind,  —  so  that  my  ghostly 
company  should  be  ancient,  caring  nothing  for 
the  fashions  and  the  changes  and  the  disinte 
grations  of  Meiji.  That  old  cemetery  behind  my 
garden  would  be  a  suitable  place.  Everything 
there  is  beautiful  with  a  beauty  of  exceeding 
and  startling  queerness  ;  each  tree  and  stone  has 
been  shaped  by  some  old,  old  ideal  which  no 
longer  exists  in  any  living  brain  ;  even  the  shad 
ows  are  not  of  this  time  and  sun,  but  of  a  world 
forgotten,  that  never  knew  steam  or  electricity  or 
magnetism  or  —  kerosene  oil !  Also  in  the  boom 
of  the  big  bell  there  is  a  quaintness  of  tone 
which  wakens  feelings,  so  strangely  far-away 
from  all  the  nineteenth-century  part  of  me,  that 
the  faint  blind  stirrings  of  them  make  me  afraid, 
—  deliciously  afraid.  Never  do  I  hear  that  billow 
ing  peal  but  I  become  aware  of  a  striving  and  a 

211 


fluttering  in  the  abyssal  part  of  my  ghost,  —  a 
sensation  as  of  memories  struggling  to  reach  the 
light  beyond  the  obscurations  of  a  million  mil 
lion  deaths  and  births.  I  hope  to  remain  within 
hearing  of  that  bell.  .  .  .  And,  considering  the 
possibility  of  being  doomed  to  the  state  of  a 
Jiki-ketsu-gaki,  I  want  to  have  my  chance  of 
being  reborn  in  some  bamboo  flower-cup,  or 
mizutamt,  whence  I  might  issue  softly,  singing 
my  thin  and  pungent  song,  to  bite  some  people 
that  I  know. 


212 


ANTS' 


I 


THIS  morning  sky,  after  the  night's 
tempest,  is  a  pure  and  dazzling  blue.  The  air 
—  the  delicious  air  !  —  is  full  of  sweet  resinous 
odors,  shed  from  the  countless  pine-boughs 
broken  and  strewn  by  the  gale.  In  the  neigh 
boring  bamboo-grove  I  hear  the  flute-call  of  the 
bird  that  praises  the  Sutra  of  the  Lotos ;  and 
the  land  is  very  still  by  reason  of  the  south 
wind.  Now  the  summer,  long  delayed,  is  truly 
with  us :  butterflies  of  queer  Japanese  colors 
are  flickering  about ;  semi  are  wheezing  ;  wasps 
are  humming ;  gnats  are  dancing  in  the  sun ; 
and  the  ants  are  busy  repairing  their  damaged 

215 


habitations.  ...  I   bethink  me  of  a  Japanese 
poem :  - 

Yuku  e"  naki : 
Ari  no  sumai  ya ! 
Go-getsu  ame". 

\_Now  the  poor  creature  has  nowhere  to  go  ! 
.  .  .  Alas  for  the  dwellings  of  the  ants  in  this  rain  of 
the  fifth  month  /] 

But  those  big  black  ants  in  my  gar 
den  do  not  seem  to  need  any  sympathy.  They 
have  weathered  the  storm  in  some  unimagin 
able  way,  while  great  trees  were  being  uprooted, 
and  houses  blown  to  fragments,  and  roads 
washed  out  of  existence.  Yet,  before  the  ty 
phoon,  they  took  no  other  visible  precaution 
than  to  block  up  the  gates  of  their  subterranean 
town.  And  the  spectacle  of  their  triumphant  toil 
to-day  impels  me  to  attempt  an  essay  on  Ants. 

I  should  have  liked  to  preface  my  dis 
quisitions  with  something  from  the  old  Japanese 
literature,  —  something  emotional  or  metaphysi 
cal.  But  all  that  my  Japanese  friends  were  able 
to  find  for  me  on  the  subject,  —  excepting  some 
verses  of  little  worth,  —  was  Chinese.  This 
Chinese  material  consisted  chiefly  of  strange 
stories  ;  and  one  of  them  seems  to  me  worth 
quoting,  —faute  de  mieuxf1 
216 


In  the  province  of  Taishu,  in  China, 
there  was  a  pious  man  who,  every  day,  during 
many  years,  fervently  worshiped  a  certain  god 
dess.  One  morning,  while  he  was  engaged  in 
his  devotions,  a  beautiful  woman,  wearing  a 
yellow  robe,  came  into  his  chamber  and  stood 
before  him.  He,  greatly  surprised,  asked  her 
what  she  wanted,  and  why  she  had  entered 
unannounced.  She  answered :  "  I  am  not  a 
woman  :  I  am  the  goddess  whom  you  have  so 
long  and  so  faithfully  worshiped  ;  and  I  have 
now  come  to  prove  to  you  that  your  devotion 
has  not  been  in  vain.  .  .  .  Are  you  acquainted 
with  the  language  of  Ants  ?  "  The  worshiper 
replied  :  "  I  am  only  a  low-born  and  ignorant 
person,  —  not  a  scholar  ;  and  even  of  the  lan 
guage  of  superior  men  I  know  nothing."  At 
these  words  the  goddess  smiled,  and  drew  from 
her  bosom  a  little  box,  shaped  like  an  incense 
box.  She  opened  the  box,  dipped  a  finger  into 
it,  and  took  therefrom  some  kind  of  ointment 
with  which  she  anointed  the  ears  of  the  man. 
"  Now,"  she  said  to  him,  "  try  to  find  some 
Ants,  and  when  you  find  any,  stoop  down,  and 
listen  carefully  to  their  talk.  You  will  be  able 

217 


to  understand  it ;  and  you  will  hear  of  some 
thing  to  your  advantage.  .  .  .  Only  remember 
that  you  must  not  frighten  or  vex  the  Ants." 
Then  the  goddess  vanished  away. 

The  man  immediately  went  out  to 
look  for  some  Ants.  He  had  scarcely  crossed 
the  threshold  of  his  door  when  he  perceived 
two  Ants  upon  a  stone  supporting  one  of  the 
house-pillars.  He  stooped  over  them,  and  lis 
tened  ;  and  he  was  astonished  to  find  that  he 
could  hear  them  talking,  and  could  understand 
what  they  said.  "  Let  us  try  to  find  a  warmer 
place,"  proposed  one  of  the  Ants.  "  Why  a 
warmer  place?  "  asked  the  other ;  —  "what  is  the 
matter  with  this  place  ?  "  "  It  is  too  damp  and 
cold  below,"  said  the  first  Ant ;  "  there  is  a 
big  treasure  buried  here ;  and  the  sunshine 
cannot  warm  the  ground  about  it."  Then  the 
two  Ants  went  away  together,  and  the  listener 
ran  for  a  spade. 

By  digging  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  pillar,  he  soon  found  a  number  of  large  jars 
full  of  gold  coin.  The  discovery  of  this  treasure 
made  him  a  very  rich  man. 

Afterwards  he  often  tried  to  listen 
to  the  conversation  of  Ants.  But  he  was  never 
again  able  to  hear  them  speak.  The  ointment 
of  the  goddess  had  opened  his  ears  to  their 
mysterious  language  for  only  a  single  day. 
218 


Now  I,  like  that  Chinese  devotee, 
must  confess  myself  a  very  ignorant  person,  and 
naturally  unable  to  hear  the  conversation  of 
Ants.  But  the  Fairy  of  Science  sometimes 
touches  my  ears  and  eyes  with  her  wand ;  and 
then,  for  a  little  time,  I  am  able  to  hear  things 
inaudible,  and  to  perceive  things  imperceptible. 


II 


For  the  same  reason  that  it  is  consid 
ered  wicked,  in  sundry  circles,  to  speak  of  a 
non-Christian  people  having  produced  a  civiliza 
tion  ethically  superior  to  our  own,  certain  per 
sons  will  not  be  pleased  by  what  I  am  going  to 
say  about  ants.  But  there  are  men,  incompar 
ably  wiser  than  I  can  ever  hope  to  be,  who  think 
about  insects  and  civilizations  independently  of 
the  blessings  of  Christianity  ;  and  I  find  en 
couragement  in  the  new  Cambridge  Natural 
History ',  which  contains  the  following  remarks 
by  Professor  David  Sharp,  concerning  ants  :  - 

"  Observation  has  revealed  the  most 
remarkable  phenomena  in  the  lives  of  these  in 
sects.  Indeed  we  can  scarcely  avoid  the  conclu- 

219 


* 


sion  that  they  have  acquired,  in  many  respects, 
the  art  of  living  together  in  societies  more  per 
fectly  than  our  own  species  has ;  and  that  they 
have  anticipated  us  in  the  acquisition  of  some 
of  the  industries  and  arts  that  greatly  facilitate 
social  life." 

I  suppose  that  few  well-informed  per 
sons  will  dispute  this  plain  statement  by  a 
trained  specialist.  The  contemporary  man  of 
science  is  not  apt  to  become  sentimental  about 
ants  or  bees  ;  but  he  will  not  hesitate  to  ac 
knowledge  that,  in  regard  to  social  evolution, 
these  insects  appear  to  have  advanced  "  beyond 
man."  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer,  whom  nobody 
will  charge  with  romantic  tendencies,  goes  con 
siderably  further  than  Professor  Sharp ;  show 
ing  us  that  ants  are,  in  a  very  real  sense,  ethi 
cally  as  well  as  economically  in  advance  of 
humanity,  —  their  lives  being  entirely  devoted 
to  altruistic  ends.  Indeed,  Professor  Sharp 
somewhat  needlessly  qualifies  his  praise  of  the 
ant  with  this  cautious  observation  :  — 

"  The  competence  of  the  ant  is  not 
like  that  of  man.  It  is  devoted  to  the  welfare 
of  the  species  rather  than  to  that  of  the  indi 
vidual,  which  is,  as  it  were,  sacrificed  or  special 
ized  for  the  benefit  of  the  community." 
220 


—  The  obvious  implication,  —  that  any  social 
state,  in  which  the  improvement  of  the  indi 
vidual  is  sacrificed  to  the  common  welfare, 
leaves  much  to  be  desired,  —  is  probably  cor 
rect,  from  the  actual  human  standpoint.  For 
man  is  yet  imperfectly  evolved ;  and  human 
society  has  much  to  gain  from  his  further  in- 
dividuation.  But  in  regard  to  social  insects 
the  implied  criticism  is  open  to  question.  "  The 
improvement  of  the  individual,"  says  Herbert 
Spencer,  "  consists  in  the  better  fitting  of 
him  for  social  cooperation ;  and  this,  being 
conducive  to  social  prosperity,  is  conducive 
to  the  maintenance  of  the  race."  In  other 
words,  the  value  of  the  individual  can  be  only 
in  relation  to  the  society ;  and  this  granted, 
whether  the  sacrifice  of  the  individual  for  the 
sake  of  that  society  be  good  or  evil  must  de 
pend  upon  what  the  society  might  gain  or  lose 
through  a  further  individuation  of  its  members. 
.  .  .  But,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  the  con 
ditions  of  ant-society  that  most  deserve  our 
attention  are  the  ethical  conditions  ;  and  these 
are  beyond  human  criticism,  since  they  realize 
that  ideal  of  moral  evolution  described  by  Mr. 
Spencer  as  "  a  state  in  which  egoism  and  altru 
ism  are  so  conciliated  that  the  one  merges  into 
the  other."  That  is  to  say,  a  state  in  which  the 
only  possible  pleasure  is  the  pleasure  of  un- 

221 


selfish  action.  Or,  again  to  quote  Mr.  Spencer, 
the  activities  of  the  insect-society  are  "ac 
tivities  which  postpone  individual  well-being 
so  completely  to  the  well-being  of  the  commu 
nity  that  individual  life  appears  to  be  attended 
to  only  just  so  far  as  is  necessary  to  make 
possible  due  attention  to  social  life,  ...  the 
individual  taking  only  just  such  food  and  just 
such  rest  as  are  needful  to  maintain  its  vigor." 


Ill 


I  hope  my  reader  is  aware  that  ants 
practise  horticulture  and  agriculture ;  that  they 
are  skillful  in  the  cultivation  of  mushrooms ; 
that  they  have  domesticated  (according  to  pre 
sent  knowledge)  five  hundred  and  eighty-four 
different  kinds  of  animals ;  that  they  make 
tunnels  through  solid  rock ;  that  they  know 
how  to  provide  against  atmospheric  changes 
which  might  endanger  the  health  of  their  chil 
dren  ;  and  that,  for  insects,  their  longevity  is 
exceptional,  —  members  of  the  more  highly 
evolved  species  living  for  a  considerable  number 
of  years. 

But  it  is  not  especially  of  these  mat 
ters  that  I  wish  to  speak.  What  I  want  to  talk 
about  is  the  awful  propriety,  the  terrible  moral- 
222 


ity,  of  the  ant.1  Our  most  appalling  ideals  of  t^ 
conduct  fall  short  of  the  ethics  of  the  ant,  —  as 
progress  is  reckoned  in  time,  —  by  nothing  less 
than  millions  of  years !  .  .  .  When  I  say  "  the 
ant,"  I  mean  the  highest  type  of  ant,  — not,  of 
course,  the  entire  ant-family.  About  two  thou 
sand  species  of  ants  are  already  known  ;  and 
these  exhibit,  in  their  social  organizations, 
widely  varying  degrees  of  evolution.  Certain 
social  phenomena  of  the  greatest  biological  im 
portance,  and  of  no  less  importance  in  their 
strange  relation  to  the  subject  of  ethics,  can  be 
studied  to  advantage  only  in  the  existence  of 
the  most  highly  evolved  societies  of  ants. 

After  all  that  has  been  written  of  late 
years  about  the  probable  value  of  relative  ex 
perience  in  the  long  life  of  the  ant,  I  suppose 
that  few  persons  would  venture  to  deny  individ 
ual  character  to  the  ant.  The  intelligence  of 
the  little  creature  in  meeting  and  overcoming 
difficulties  of  a  totally  new  kind,  and  in  adapt 
ing  itself  to  conditions  entirely  foreign  to  its 
experience,  proves  a  considerable  power  of  in- 

1  An  interesting  fact  in  this  connection  is  that  the  Japan 
ese  word  for  ant,  art,  is  represented  by  an  ideograph  formed 
of  the  character  for  "  insect  "  combined  with  the  character 
signifying  "  moral  rectitude,"  "  propriety "  (giri).  So  the 
Chinese  character  actually  means  "  The  Propriety-Insect." 

223 


dependent  thinking.  But  this  at  least  is  certain  : 
that  the  ant  has  no  individuality  capable  of  be 
ing  exercised  in  a  purely  selfish  direction  ;  —  I 
am  using  the  word  "  selfish  "  in  its  ordinary 
acceptation.  A  greedy  ant,  a  sensual  ant,  an 
ant  capable  of  any  one  of  the  seven  deadly  sins, 
or  even  of  a  small  venial  sin,  is  unimaginable. 
Equally  unimaginable,  of  course,  a  romantic 
ant,  an  ideological  ant,  a  poetical  ant,  or  an  ant 
inclined  to  metaphysical  speculations.  No  hu 
man  mind  could  attain  to  the  absolute  matter- 
of-fact  quality  of  the  ant-mind  ;  —  no  human 
being,  as  now  constituted,  could  cultivate  a 
mental  habit  so  impeccably  practical  as  that  of 
the  ant.  But  this  superlatively  practical  mind  is 
incapable  of  moral  error.  It  would  be  difficult, 
perhaps,  to  prove  that  the  ant  has  no  religious 
ideas.  But  it  is  certain  that  such  ideas  could 
not  be  of  any  use  to  it.  The  being  incapable  of 
moral  weakness  is  beyond  the  need  of  "  spirit 
ual  guidance." 

Only  in  a  vague  way  can  we  conceive 
the  character  of  ant-society,  and  the  nature  of 
ant-morality ;  and  to  do  even  this  we  must  try 
to  imagine  some  yet  impossible  state  of  human 
society  and  human  morals.  Let  us,  then,  im 
agine  a  world  full  of  people  incessantly  and 
furiously  working,  —  all  of  whom  seem  to  be 
224 


women.  No  one  of  these  women  could  be  per 
suaded  or  deluded  into,  taking  a  single  atom 
of  food  more  than  is  needful  to  maintain  her 
strength  ;  and  no  one  of  them  ever  sleeps  a 
second  longer  than  is  necessary  to  keep  her 
nervous  system  in  good  working-order.  And  all 
of  them  are  so  peculiarly  constituted  that  the 
least  unnecessary  indulgence  would  result  in 
some  derangement  of  function. 

The  work  daily  performed  by  these 
female  laborers  comprises  road-making,  bridge- 
building,  timber-cutting,  architectural  construc 
tion  of  numberless  kinds,  horticulture  and  agri 
culture,  the  feeding  and  sheltering  of  a  hundred 
varieties  of  domestic  animals,  the  manufacture 
of  sundry  chemical  products,  the  storage  and 
conservation  of  countless  food-stuffs,  and  the 
care  of  the  children  of  the  race.  All  this  labor 
is  done  for  the  commonwealth  —  no  citizen  of 
which  is  capable  even  of  thinking  about  "pro 
perty,"  except  as  a  res  publica  ;  — and  the  sole 
object  of  the  commonwealth  is  the  nurture  and 
training  of  its  young,  —  nearly  all  of  whom  are 
girls.  The  period  of  infancy  is  long :  the  chil 
dren  remain  for  a  great  while,  not  only  helpless, 
but  shapeless,  and  withal  so  delicate  that  they 
must  be  very  carefully  guarded  against  the 
least  change  of  temperature.  Fortunately  their 
nurses  understand  the  laws  of  health:  each 

225 


* 


thoroughly  knows  all  that  she  ought  to  know 
in  regard  to  ventilation,  disinfection,  drainage, 
moisture,  and  the  danger  of  germs,  —  germs 
being  as  visible,  perhaps,  to  her  myopic  sight 
as  they  become  to  our  own  eyes  under  the  mi 
croscope.  Indeed,  all  matters  of  hygiene  are  so 
well  comprehended  that  no  nurse  ever  makes 
a  mistake  about  the  sanitary  conditions  of  her 
neighborhood. 

In  spite  of  this  perpetual  labor  no 
worker  remains  unkempt :  each  is  scrupulously 
neat,  making  her  toilet  many  times  a  day.  But 
as  every  worker  is  born  with  the  most  beautiful 
of  combs  and  brushes  attached  to -her  wrists,  no 
time  is  wasted  in  the  toilet-room.  Besides  keep 
ing  themselves  strictly  clean,  the  workers  must 
also  keep  their  houses  and  gardens  in  faultless 
order,  for  the  sake  of  the  children.  Nothing 
less  than  an  earthquake,  an  eruption,  an  inun 
dation,  or  a  desperate  war,  is  allowed  to  inter 
rupt  the  daily  routine  of  dusting,  sweeping, 
scrubbing,  and  disinfecting. 


IV 


Now  for  stranger  facts  :  — 

This  world  of  incessant  toil  is  a  more 

than  Vestal  world.    It  is  true  that  males  can 

226 


sometimes  be  perceived  in  it ;  but  they  ap 
pear  only  at  particular  seasons,  and  they  have 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  workers  or 
with  the  work.  None  of  them  would  presume 
to  address  a  worker,  —  except,  perhaps,  under 
extraordinary  circumstances  of  common  peril. 
And  no  worker  would  think  of  talking  to  a  male  ; 
—  for  males,  in  this  queer  world,  are  inferior 
beings,  equally  incapable  of  fighting  or  work 
ing,  and  tolerated  only  as  necessary  evils.  One 
special  class  of  females,  —  the  Mothers-Elect  of 
the  race,  —  do  condescend  to  consort  with 
males,  during  a  very  brief  period,  at  particular 
seasons.  But  the  Mothers-Elect  do  not  work  ; 
and  they  must  accept  husbands.  A  worker 
could  not  even  dream  of  keeping  company  with 
a  male,  —  not  merely  because  such  association 
would  signify  the  most  frivolous  waste  of  time, 
nor  yet  because  the  worker  necessarily  regards 
all  males  with  unspeakable  contempt ;  but  be 
cause  the  worker  is  incapable  of  wedlock.  Some 
workers,  indeed,  are  capable  of  parthenogenesis, 
and  give  birth  to  children  who  never  had  fathers 
As  a  general  rule,  however,  the  worker  is  truly 
feminine  by  her  moral  instincts  only :  she  has 
all  the  tenderness,  the  patience,  and  the  fore 
sight  that  we  call  "  maternal ; "  but  her  sex 
has  disappeared,  like  the  sex  of  the  Dragon- 
Maiden  in  the  Buddhist  legend. 

227 


For  defense  against  creatures  of  prey, 
or  enemies  of  the  state,  the  workers  are  pro 
vided  with  weapons  ;  and  they  are  furthermore 
protected  by  a  large  military  force.  The  warriors 
are  so  much  bigger  than  the  workers  (in  some 
communities,  at  least)  that  it  is  difficult,  at  first 
sight,  to  believe  them  of  the  same  race.  Sol 
diers  one  hundred  times  larger  than  the  work 
ers  whom  they  guard  are  not  uncommon.  But 
all  these  soldiers  are  Amazons,  —  or,  more  cor 
rectly  speaking,  semi-females.  They  can  work 
sturdily  ;  but  being  built  for  fighting  and  for 
heavy  pulling  chiefly,  their  usefulness  is  re 
stricted  to  those  directions  in  which  force,  rather 
than  skill,  is  required. 

[Why  females,  rather  than  males, 
should  have  been  evolutionally  specialized  into 
soldiery  and  laborers  may  not  be  nearly  so 
simple  a  question  as  it  appears.  I  am  very  sure 
of  not  being  able  to  answer  it.  But  natural 
economy  may  have  decided  the  matter.  In 
many  forms  of  life,  the  female  greatly  exceeds 
the  male  in  bulk  and  in  energy ;  —  perhaps,  in 
this  case,  the  larger  reserve  of  life-force  pos 
sessed  originally  by  the  complete  female  could 
be  more  rapidly  and  effectively  utilized  for  the 
development  of  a  special  fighting-caste.  All 
energies  which,  in  the  fertile  female,  would  be 
228 


expended  in  the  giving  of  life  seem  here  to 
have  been  diverted  to  the  evolution  of  aggres 
sive  power,  or  working-capacity.] 

Of  the  true  females,  —  the  Mothers- 
Elect,  —  there  are  very  few  indeed  ;  and  these 
are  treated  like  queens.  So  constantly  and  so 
reverentially  are  they  waited  upon  that  they 
can  seldom  have  any  wishes  to  express.  They 
are  relieved  from  every  care  of  existence,  —  ex 
cept  the  duty  of  bearing  offspring.  Night  and 
day  they  are  cared  for  in  every  possible  manner. 
They  alone  are  superabundantly  and  richly 
fed  :  —  for  the  sake  of  the  offspring  they  must 
eat  and  drink  and  repose  right  royally  ;  and 
their  physiological  specialization  allows  of  such 
indulgence  ad  libitum.  They  seldom  go  out, 
and  never  unless  attended  by  a  powerful  escort ; 
as  they  cannot  be  permitted  to  incur  unnecessary 
fatigue  or  danger.  Probably  they  have  no  great 
desire  to  go  out.  Around  them  revolves  the 
whole  activity  of  the  race :  all  its  intelligence 
and  toil  and  thrift  are  directed  solely  toward 
the  well-being  of  these  Mothers  and  of  their 
children. 

But  last  and  least  of  the  race  rank 
the  husbands  of  these  Mothers,  —  the  necessary 
Evils,  —  the  males.  They  appear  only  at  a  par 
ticular  season,  as  I  have  already  observed  ;  and 

229 


their  lives  are  very  short.  Some  cannot  even 
boast  of  noble  descent,  though  destined  to 
royal  wedlock  ;  for  they  are  not  royal  offspring, 
but  virgin-born,  —  parthenogenetic  children,  — 
and,  for  that  reason  especially,  inferior  beings, 
the  chance  results  of  some  mysterious  atavism. 
But  of  any  sort  of  males  the  commonwealth 
tolerates  but  few,  —  barely  enough  to  serve  as 
husbands  for  the  Mothers-Elect,  and  these  few 
perish  almost  as  soon  as  their  duty  has  been 
done.  The  meaning  of  Nature's  law,  in  this 
extraordinary  world,  is  identical  with  Ruskin's 
teaching  that  life  without  effort  is  crime ;  and 
since  the  males  are  useless  as  workers  or  fight 
ers,  their  existence  is  of  only  momentary  impor 
tance.  They  are  not,  indeed,  sacrificed,  —  like 
the  Aztec  victim  chosen  for  the  festival  of  Tez- 
catlipoca,  and  allowed  a  honeymoon  of  twenty 
days  before  his  heart  was  torn  out.  But  they 
are  scarcely  less  unfortunate  in  their  high  for 
tune.  Imagine  youths  brought  up  in  the  know 
ledge  that  they  are  destined  to  become  royal 
bridegrooms  for  a  single  night,  —  that  after 
their  bridal  they  will  have  no  moral  right  to 
live,  —  that  marriage,  for  each  and  all  of  them, 
will  signify  certain  death,  —  and  that  they  can 
not  even  hope  to  be  lamented  by  their  young 
widows,  who  will  survive  them  for  a  time  of 
many  generations.  .  .  .  ! 
230 


But  all  the  foregoing  is  no  more  than  gi 
a  proem  to  the  real  "  Romance  of  the  Insect-  xrj 
World." 

—  By  far  the  most  startling  discovery 
in  relation  to  this  astonishing  civilization  is  that 
of  the  suppression  of  sex.  In  certain  advanced 
forms  of  ant-life  sex  totally  disappears  in  the 
majority  of  individuals  ;  —  in  nearly  all  the 
higher  ant-societies  sex-life  appears, to  exist  only 
to  the  extent  absolutely  needed  for  the  continu 
ance  of  the  species.  But  the  biological  fact  in 
itself  is  much  less  startling  than  the  ethical 
suggestion  which  it  offers  ;  — for  this  practical 
suppression,  or  regulation,  of  sex-faculty  appears 
to  be  voluntary  !  .Voluntary,  at  least,  so  far  as 
the  species  is  concerned.  It  is  now  believed 
that  these  wonderful  creatures  have  learned  how 
to  develop,  or  to  arrest  the  development,  of  sex 
in  their  young,  —  by  some  particular  mode  of 
nutrition.  They  have  succeeded  in  placing  un 
der  perfect  control  what  is  commonly  supposed 
to  be  the  most  powerful  and  unmanageable  of 
instincts.  And  this  rigid  restraint  of  sex-life  to 
within  the  limits  necessary  to  provide  against 
extinction  is  but  one  (though  the  most  amazing) 
of  many  vital  economies  effected  by  the  race. 
Every  capacity  for  egoistic  pleasure  —  in  the 

231 


common  meaning  of  the  word  "egoistic  " — has 
been  equally  -repressed  through  physiological 
modification.  No  indulgence  of  any  natural 
appetite  is  possible  except  to  that  degree  in 
which  such  indulgence  can  directly  or  indirectly 
benefit  the  species  ;  —  even  the  indispensable 
requirements  of  food  and  sleep  being  satisfied 
only  to  the  exact  extent  necessary  for  the  main 
tenance  of  healthy  activity.  The  individual  can 
exist,  act,  think,  only  for  the  communal  good ; 
and  the  commune  triumphantly  refuses,  in  so 
far  as  cosmic  law  permits,  to  let  itself  be  ruled 
either  by  Love  or  Hunger. 

Most  of  us  have  been  brought  up  in 
the  belief  that  without  some  kind  of  religious 
creed  —  some  hope  of  future  reward  or  fear  of 
future  punishment  —  no  civilization  could  exist. 
We  have  been  taught  to  think  that  in  the  ab 
sence  of  laws  based  upon  moral  ideas,  and  in 
the  absence  of  an  effective  police  to  enforce 
such  laws,  nearly  everybody  would  seek  only 
his  or  her  personal  advantage,  to  the  disadvan 
tage  of  everybody  else.  The  strong  would  then 
destroy  the  weak  ;  pity  and  sympathy  would 
disappear ;  and  the  whole  social  fabric  would 
fall  to  pieces.  .  .  .  These  teachings  confess 
the  existing  imperfection  of  human  nature  ;  and 
they  contain  obvious  truth.  But  those  who  first 
232 


proclaimed  that  truth,  thousands  and  thousands 
of  years  ago,  never  imagined  a  form  of  social 
existence  in  which  selfishness  would  be  naturally 
impossible.  It  remained  for  irreligious  Nature 
to  furnish  us  with  proof  positive  that  there  can 
exist  a  society  in  which  the  pleasure  of  active 
beneficence  makes  needless  the  idea  of  duty, 
—  a  society  in  which  instinctive  morality  can 
dispense  with  ethical  codes  of  every  sort,  —  a 
society  of  which  every  member  is  born  so  abso-) 
lutely  unselfish,  and  so  energetically  good,  that? 
moral  training  could  signify,  even  for  its  young 
est,  neither  more  nor  less  than  waste  of  precious 
time. 

To  the  Evolutionist  such  facts  neces 
sarily  suggest  that  the  value  of  our  moral  ideal 
ism  is  but  temporary ;  and  that  something 
better  than  virtue,  better  than  kindness,  better 
than  self-denial,  —  in  the  present  human  mean 
ing  of  those  terms,  —  might,  under  certain 
conditions,  eventually  replace  them.  He  finds 
himself  obliged  to  face  the  question  whether  a 
world  without  moral  notions  might  not  be 
morally  better  than  a  world  in  which  conduct 
is  regulated  by  such  notions.  He  must  even 
ask  himself  whether  the  existence  of  religious 
commandments,  moral  laws,  and  ethical  stand 
ards  among  ourselves  does  not  prove  us  still  in 

233 


a  very  primitive  stage  of  social  evolution.  And 
these  questions  naturally  lead  up  to  another  : 
Will  humanity  ever  be  able,  on  this  planet, 
to  reach  an  ethical  condition  beyond  all  its 
ideals,  —  a  condition  in  which  everything  that 
we  now  call  evil  will  have  been  atrophied  out 
of  existence,  and  everything  that  we  call  virtue 
have  been  transmuted  into  instinct ;  —  a  state 
of  altruism  in  which  ethical  concepts  and  codes 
will  have  become  as  useless  as  they  would 
be,  even  now,  in  the  societies  of  the  higher 
ants. 

The  giants  of  modern  thought  have 
given  some  attention  to  this  question  ;  and  the 
greatest  among  them  has  answered  it  —  partly 
in  the  affirmative.  Herbert  Spencer  has  ex 
pressed  his  belief  that  humanity  will  arrive  at 
some  state  of  civilization  ethically  comparable 
with  that  of  the  ant :  — 

"  If  we  have,  in  lower  orders  of  crea 
tures,  cases  in  which  the  nature  is  constitution 
ally  so  modified  that  altruistic  activities  have 
become  one  with  egoistic  activities,  there  is  an 
irresistible  implication  that  a  parallel  identifica 
tion  will,  under  parallel  conditions,  take  place 
among  human  beings.  Social  insects  furnish  us 
with  instances  completely  to  the  point, — and 
234 


instances  showing  us,  indeed,  to  what  a  mar 
velous  degree  the  life  of  the  individual  may  be 
absorbed  in  subserving  the  lives  of  other  indi 
viduals.  .  .  .  Neither  the  ant  nor  the  bee  can 
be  supposed  to  have  a  sense  of  duty,  in  the 
acceptation  we  give  to  that  word  ;  nor  can  it 
be  supposed  that  it  is  continually  undergoing 
self-sacrifice,  in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of  that 
word.  .  .  .  [The  facts]  show  us  that  it  is  within 
the  possibilities  of  organization  to  produce  a 
nature  which  shall  be  just  as  energetic  and 
even  more  energetic  in  the  pursuit  of  altru 
istic  ends,  as  is  in  other  cases  shown  in  the  pur 
suit  of  egoistic  ends  ;  —  and  they  show  that,  in 
such  cases,  these  altruistic  ends  are  pursued  in 
pursuing  ends  which,  on  their  other  face,  are 
egoistic.  For  the  satisfaction  of  the  needs  of 
the  organization,  these  actions,  conducive  to  the 
welfare  of  others,  must  be  carried  on.  ... 


"  So  far  from  its  being  true  that  there 
must  go  on,  throughout  all  the  future,  a  con 
dition  in  which  self-regard  is  to  be  continually 
subjected  by  the  regard  for  others,  it  will,  con- 
trari-wise,  be  the  case  that  a  regard  for  others 
will  eventually  become  so  large  a  source  of 
pleasure  as  to  overgrow  the  pleasure  which  is 
derivable  from  direct  egoistic  gratification.  .  .  . 

235 


Eventually,  then,  there  will  come  also  a  state 
in  which  egoism  and  altruism  are  so  conciliated 
that  the  one  merges  in  the  other." 


VI 


Of  course  the  foregoing  prediction 
does  not  imply  that  human  nature  will  ever 
undergo  such  physiological  change  as  would  be 
represented  by  structural  specializations  com 
parable  to  those  by  which  the  various  castes  of 
insect  societies  are  differentiated.  We  are  not 
bidden  to  imagine  a  future  state  of  humanity 
in  which  the  active  majority  would  consist  of 
semi-female  workers  and  Amazons  toiling  for 
an  inactive  minority  of  selected  Mothers.  Even 
in  his  chapter,  "  Human  Population  in  the  Fu 
ture,"  Mr.  Spencer  has  attempted  no  detailed 
statement  of  the  physical  modifications  inevi 
table  to  the  production  of  higher  moral  types, 
—  though  his  general  statement  in  regard  to  a 
perfected  nervous  system,  and  a  great  diminu 
tion  of  human  fertility,  suggests  that  such  moral 
evolution  would  signify  a  very  considerable 
amount  of  physical  change.  If  it  be  legitimate 
to  believe  in  a  future  humanity  to  which  the 
pleasure  of  mutual  beneficence  will  represent 
the  whole  joy  of  life,  would  it  not  also  be  legiti 
mate  to  imagine  other  transformations,  physical 

236 


and  moral,  which  the  facts  of  insect-biology 
have  proved  to  be  within  the  range  of  evolu- 
tional  possibility  ?  ...  I  do  not  know.  I  most  fcD 
worshipfully  reverence  Herbert  Spencer  as  the  <"j 
greatest  philosopher  that  has  yet  appeared  in 
this  world  ;  and  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  write 
down  anything  contrary  to  his  teaching,  in  such 
wise  that  the  reader  could  imagine  it  to  have 
,been  inspired  by  the  Synthetic  Philosophy.  For 
the  ensuing  reflections,  I  alone  am  responsible ; 
and  if  I  err,  let  the  sin  be  upon  my  own  head. 

I  suppose  that  the  moral  transforma 
tions  predicted  by  Mr.  Spencer,  could  be  ef 
fected  only  with  the  aid  of  physiological  change, 
and  at  a  terrible  cost.  Those  ethical  conditions 
manifested  by  insect-societies  can  have  been 
reached  only  through  effort  desperately  sus 
tained  for  millions  of  years  against  the  most 
atrocious  necessities.  Necessities  equally  mer 
ciless  may  have  to  be  met  and  mastered  eventu 
ally  by  the  human  race.  Mr.  Spencer  has  shown 
that  the  time  of  the  greatest  possible  human 
suffering  is  yet  to  come,  and  that  it  will  be  con 
comitant  with  the  period  of  the  greatest  possi 
ble  pressure  of  population.  Among  other  results 
of  that  long  stress,  I  understand  that  there  will 
be  a  vast  increase  of  human  intelligence  and 
sympathy  ;  and  that  this  increase  of  intelligence 

237 


will  be  effected  at  the  cost  of  human  fertility. 
But  this  decline  in  reproductive  power  will  not, 
we  are  told,  be  sufficient  to  assure  the  very  high 
est  social  conditions :  it  will  only  relieve  that 
pressure  of  population  which  has  been  the  main 
cause  of  human  suffering.  The  state  of  perfect 
social  equilibrium  will  be  approached,  but  never 
quite  reached,  by  mankind  — 

Unless  there  be  discovered  some  means 
of  solving  economic  problems,  just  as  social  insects 
have  solved  them,  by  the  suppression  of  sex-life. 

Supposing  that  such  a  discovery  were 
made,  and  that  the  human  race  should  decide 
to  arrest  the  development  of  sex  in  the  ma 
jority  of  its  young,  —  so  as  to  effect  a  transfer 
ence  of  those  forces,  now  demanded  by  sex-life 
to  the  development  of  higher  activities,  —  might 
not  the  result  be  an  eventual  state  of  polymor 
phism,  like  that  of  ants  ?  And,  in  such  event, 
might  not  the  Coming  Race  be  indeed  repre 
sented  in  its  higher  types,  —  through  feminine 
rather  than  masculine  evolution,  —  by  a  ma 
jority  of  beings  of  neither  sex  ? 

Considering  how  many  persons,  even 
now,  through  merely  unselfish  (not  to  speak  of 
religious)  motives,  sentence  themselves  to  celi- 

238 


bacy,  it  should  not  appear  improbable  that  a 
more  highly  evolved  humanity  would  cheerfully 
sacrifice  a  large  proportion  of  its  sex-life  for  the 
common  weal,  particularly  in  view  of  certain 
advantages  to  be  gained.  Not  the  'least  of  such 
advantages  —  always  supposing  that  mankind 
were  able  to  control  sex-life  after  the  natural 
manner  of  the  ants  —  would  be  a  prodigious 
increase  of  longevity.  The  higher  types  of  a 
humanity  superior  to  sex  might  be  able  to 
realize  the  dream  of  life  for  a  thousand  years. 

Already  we  find  our  lives  too  short 
for  the  work  we  have  to  do ;  and  with  the  con 
stantly  accelerating  progress  of  discovery,  and 
the  never-ceasing  expansion  of  knowledge,  we 
shall  certainly  find  more  and  more  reason  to 
regret,  as  time  goes  on,  the  brevity  of  exist 
ence.  That  Science  will  ever  discover  the  Elixir 
of  the  Alchemists'  hope  is  extremely  unlikely. 
The  Cosmic  Powers  will  not  allow  us  to  cheat 
them.  For  every  advantage  which  they  yield 
us  the  full  price  must  be  paid :  nothing  for 
nothing  is  the  everlasting  law.  Perhaps  the 
price  of  long  life  will  prove  to  be  the  price  that  the 
ant&hajp  paid  for  it.  Perhaps,  upon  some  elder 
planet,  that  price  has  already  been  paid,  and  the 
power  to  produce  offspring  restricted  to  a  caste 
morphologically  differentiated,  in  unimaginable 
ways,  from  the  rest  of  the  species.  .  .  . 

239 


VII 

But  while  the  facts  of  insect-biology 
suggest  so  much  in  regard  to  the  future  course 
of  human  evolution,  do  they  not  also  suggest 
something  of  largest  significance  concerning 
the  relation  of  ethics  to  cosmic  law  ?  Appar 
ently,  the  highest  evolution  will  not  be  per 
mitted  to  creatures  capable  of  what  human 
moral  experience  has  in  all  eras  condemned. 
Apparently,  the  highest  possible  strength  is  the 
strength  of  unselfishness  ;  and  power  supreme 
never  will  be  accorded  to  cruelty  or  to  lust. 
There  may  be  no  gods ;  but  the  forces  that 
shape  and  dissolve  all  forms  of  being  would 
seem  to  be  much  more  exacting  than  gods.  To 
prove  a  "  dramatic  tendency  "  in  the  ways  of 
the  stars  is  not  possible  ;  but  the  cosmic  pro 
cess  seems  nevertheless  to  affirm  the  worth  of 
every  human  system  of  ethics  fundamentally 
opposed  to  human  egoism. 


240 


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